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A/N: this is not the breeding kink one-shot I was talking about in the poll, but this was already finished and unfortunately yesterday something happened and I’m not in a good place rn mentally. hope you’ll enjoy🥛sorry but it’s not really edited.

Bucky shivers as the usual warm weight pressed against his side is missing. He lethargically extends his arm to bring your plush body back to his, yet his fingers only meet wrinkly, tepid sheets. His eyes fly open, only to find your side empty. 

It’s the middle of the night and your baby boy is sleeping soundly in the crib he assembled months ago, tucked close beside your bed. This allows Bucky to reach him the moment the faintest whimper slips from his lips—one of the many advantages of having enhanced senses. He can see the exhaustion pressing down on you, and still, you try to cram as many chores as possible into your schedule, nowadays reduced to feedings and diaper changes. But Bucky would do anything to make you feel like you’re keeping up.

These days your husband is always repeating the same thing: that he’ll handle the house, that you don’t need to push yourself like this. But you do anyway, unable to shake the guilt of leaving everything to him when he’s already the one waking in the night to take care of your son.

“I’m a super soldier, you pretty mama,” he promptly reminds you, his voice gentle against the bare skin of your shoulder. “Why would I leave this stuff to my beautiful wife when I don’t need that much rest in the first place?”

The ensuite is empty, which means you’re either in the kitchen pumping or the living room wide awake.

Bucky pushes himself up slowly, leaving the bedroom door open behind him—just in case. He could hear his son cry from miles away, but even the former Winter Soldier can’t quite shake the instinct to run to his son in case of potential danger.

The kitchen light catches his attention the moment he steps into the hallway, spilling across the floor in a warm glow. He follows it without thinking, but the sight that greets him makes him freeze on the doorway.

Bucky has always reserved particular attention to your chest since the first time you started fooling around while dating.

But this is different.

He never could have imagined that one day the mere sight of your nipples leaking milk would leave him stiff in his pants and drooling. That something as natural as your body providing for your child could feel so intimate. During your pregnancy, your breasts had grown fuller and heavier, often sore enough to make you whine in pain against his shoulder. More than once, you’d sighed in frustration at the milk that soaked through your bras, inconvenient and relentless.

And each time, Bucky had to suppress the instinct to clean you up. With his tongue.

He might be over a hundred years old, but he knows his way around the internet since the first time he grumpily announced he was going to look up what a creampie was, while you were in stitches on the couch. You still tried to warn him through your amusement, explaining that the internet is a treacherous place, one where everything should be taken with a healthy dose of skepticism.

The shame curling hot in his stomach is inevitable when he looks at your chest with his pants uncomfortably tight, but this fantasy only intensified with time, to the point where he feels like imploding at the slightest mention of you pumping.

Bucky gulps thickly, frowning in animosity at the two devices attached to your tits that peak out from your sports bra. He really wants to suckle on your nipples and feel your sweet milk bless his senses, however, despite all the years of dating and marriage, asking would probably feel like walking straight in front of a freight train running at full speed. 

His tongue unconsciously licks his lips as you pour some of the freshly pumped milk in a baby bottle, before going through the motions of setting the devices back in place. The wearable breast pumps had been his idea, actually, after months spent buried in books, articles, and a concerning amount of online forums for new moms. He read everything he could get his hands on, determined to make things easier for you. Multiple people praised these over traditional ones for their gentler suction and better angles, so one day Bucky’d shown up with his laptop open to the website of a famous online store specialized in hands-free pumps, already halfway through his research and entirely ready to start measuring your breasts.

Your chest aches more often than not nowadays. You hadn’t expected to produce this much milk, or how constant it would feel. Not just during the day, but at night too, when you find yourself half-asleep at the kitchen counter, filling bottle after bottle while your body begs you to lie down.

Bucky knows everything got more sensitive and swollen for you since you got pregnant, so he often finds himself wondering if he could make you come just by stimulating your tits alone. 

Shaking his head to calm himself down before entering the kitchen with a full hard-on, Bucky slowly approaches you, wrapping his arms around your waist from behind. He doesn’t miss the way your body automatically relaxes under his touch.

“Was wondering where my beautiful wife went.” He whispers, resting his chin on your shoulder to eye the battlefield of spilled milk and paper towels. “How are you feeling, lovely?”  

“Tired.” You murmur around a yawn as your head falls back against his chest. “And aching.”

In this new position, his blue eyes can comfortably admire your cleavage. His stare on the plump skin of your chest spilling out from the tight sports bra is intense, though he clears his throat before his cock takes over his common sense and his teeth end up sinking in your tender flesh.

“Mmh… I can help, you know?” You glance back at him, eyebrows furrowed.

“No baby, you already do so much. Besides, these things are amazing! They do everything by themselves, I just have to empty them.” Bucky swallows, before gently turning you to face him.

“No, I meant—I want to help help you.” Your eyebrows raise, still not understanding.

“I want to taste it, doll.”

Oh.

Oh.

Your eyebrows shoot up stunned, before a small grin threatens to take over your lips.

“James Buchanan Barnes, you want to nurse on my breasts?” A pretty blush takes over the apples of his cheeks at your bluntness. Your husband has never looked so boyishly pretty before.

“Don’t say it like that.” His affronted voice wavers, pulling a chuckle out of you that makes your tits jiggle alluringly. His eyes promptly fall on them, before he flushes violently upon noticing you have caught him drooling red-handed.

“But that’s what you want, right Jamie?” You tilt your head teasingly, cradling his cheeks in your soft hands.

He nods expectantly, eyes sparkling despite the scorching embarrassment pooling into his belly.

“Okay, but let me remove these first.” His breath hitches at your nonchalant reaction. 

Your husband’s chest heaves in anticipation as he waits for the electric pumps to finish, unable to stay put behind you like an overhyped puppy waiting for his treat. Bucky knows you are taking your time in storing the milk away on purpose—it’s not your fault he gets so adorable whenever he loses grip on the composure he is so proud of.

When you are done, you barely have time to turn around before his strong arms pick you up to place your butt on the counter, so he can be closer to your chest. He kisses you desperately, kneading your waist and thighs until you are left warm and moaning.

Eventually his lips end up tracing a trail of wet kisses down your throat, finally allowing his nose to gently graze the skin of your breasts. He helps you remove your bra with shaky hands, gasping when your torso is finally bare for him to toy with.

“Look at you.” His large hands encompass the swell of your tits, gently kneading the flesh to not hurt you. Your quiet whimper stops him instantly, looking up at you to catch any sign of discomfort. But he only receives a weak nod, your hands desperately gripping his biceps as his fingers reprise their exploring. 

“They are so full, my love. I bet they hurt, right?” His eyes glass over, spellbound as the pads of his thumbs delicately circle both of your turgid nipples, drawing a few stray drops of milk. Bucky instantly brings the digits to his mouth, eyelids fluttering shut at the flavor blessing his taste buds.

“Fuck, you really are sweet everywhere, doll.” You shudder at his growled praise, your tired body extremely sensitive as his fingers keep stroking your nubs.

Your loud gasp is swallowed in the nick of time in fear of waking your son up, yet you stop yourself from flinching when Bucky’s lips finally engulf your right nipple. His mouth is hot and his tongue eager against the tender surface; you’ve always enjoyed the care and time he puts in worshipping your chest, but this time it feels completely different with the way his palms caress your tits, and his tongue patiently grazes your nipples with serenity written all over his features.

“Bucky—” You interrupt him as he starts sucking. It’s too soft, just like him, you think fondly. And it’s not that you don’t love it, but your milk will barely come out if he doesn’t get a little rougher.

“C’mon, honey, you can suck harder.” You encourage quietly, the only answer you get is him dazedly blinking up at you through his long, dark lashes. 

His hand fondles the breast his lips aren’t occupying, while his vibranium arm wraps around your back to bring you impossibly closer. Fingertips dig into your supple skin as he obeys, his eyes rolling back at milk finally filling his mouth. The gentle licks soon transform into harsher suckles, and one of your hands goes straight to your mouth with a resounding smack to stop a loud whine from potentially reaching your neighbors. 

Yes, it happened before—definitely too many times for you to comfortably look them in the eye without your cheeks going on fire.

Bucky can smell your arousal, but his mind is clouded with his own pleasure to understand what’s happening around him.

He’s finally doing it, he’s drinking your milk directly from the source. This might potentially be the hottest thing you’ve ever done.

Well, apart from that time you fucked in one of the empty meeting rooms in his office. 

Now that Bucky thinks about it, you probably conceived your baby boy that time. He remembers too clearly how aroused the both of you were. His body was on fire that day, he felt like a fucking animal in heat trapped in a cage after he was urgently called by his secretary as he was slowly thrusting his cock into your half-asleep body that morning. And you… well, it was actually your idea to have sex there.

You showed up at his workplace, calling him Congressman with that whiny voice of yours, and claimed you needed to have his cock inside you so bad as you both stood in front of his two secretaries hurriedly fixing his schedule around you, since it was a well-known fact that Bucky would abandon anything if his wife needed him.

Then you dragged him in one of the empty rooms by his tie, and God, he still shivers at the memory of how you rode him on that damn chair, only wearing that stupid little sundress he bought you on his last work trip, just because it looked cute. And fuck, now it was hanging loosely from your waist as you moaned loud enough for his whole staff to hear when he finally came inside you, stuffing you with his cum as you cried and trembled around him, his cock refusing to soften so Bucky picked you up and brought you to the conference table to roughly thrust inside you, making you squirt all over his pants—

Yeah... that’s a story for another time. 

One of your hands cups the back of his head, slightly pulling at his hair as you lean forward with a whimper. 

“Jesus Christ.” Your man groans through a mouthful of you.

“Yeah? Is it good?” You tease, giggling at the eager nod he gives you. 

“So good, pretty girl.” He whines, pulling away from your nipple only to move onto the other. 

His tongue plays with the hard peak, moaning when a quiet whine falls from your lips. The lewd, wet sounds of his licking and sucking prompt you to wrap your thighs around his hips and push against him, your nails digging into the meat of his shoulders to try and find a crumb of stimulation against his belly for your pussy. It’s so messy your arousal soaks through your thin shorts, now sticking uncomfortably to your damp skin.

Despite Bucky being completely lost into his own bliss, he still finds the mental strength to tighten his hold around your waist to keep you still against the counter and enjoy his midnight snack peacefully. 

Your nipples are tender by now, abused and wet by one very hungry super soldier. Your head falls back unconsciously, a little embarrassed at the fact that you are probably ready to come and your pussy has been touched a total of zero times.

His large palm languidly slides down your thigh, until it cups your pussy, the vibrations of his low moan further stimulating your nub as your slick coats his fingers through the fabric. You urge him on, grinding onto the heel of his hand.

Two fingers finally travel under the waistband, the rough pads working over your clit, firm but not too fast, just how you like it.

Pleasure burns hotter and hotter with each press of his fingers against your nub, until they find your entrance, delicately rubbing over your folds and collecting your wetness before he nudges them in. Your jaw slackens around a silent moan as they stretch you out so deliciously, curling and rubbing that sweet spot that always makes you gush so prettily around him.

Bucky exhales sharply through his nose, still suckling on your nipples as your hole hungrily swallows his fingers. He is borderline dizzy from how good he feels with his fingers in your pussy and your milk down his throat.

“Feels good, doll?” The words are nothing short of a murmur against your skin. “She’s so needy for me, hm? Doesn’t wanna let go.”

Your cheeks are on fire, and he receives only a quick nod as an answer. The touch his lips leave across your chest burn, causing your lips to prettily open around a silent moan.

“Jamie, just like that, fuck—” You sigh blissed out, flinching when his thumb slowly goes back to toying with your puffy clit. Bucky didn’t realize how much he missed the way your core would turn all swollen with arousal.

“Missed this so much, missed you, honey.” A needy whimper claws out of his throat. “Talk to me, tell me what you wanna do to me.”

“Fucking hell,” he takes a deep breath, pressing soft pecks over your breasts. “Wanna fill you up, sweetheart. Can’t stop thinking about it, how gorgeous you looked all full with my baby.” His eyes briefly close in a futile attempt to ward off the painful throbbing of his cock pushing against his sweatpants.

You clamp around him, shivering when his other hand squeezes your hips.

“‘S all I can think about. Day and night.” He rambles brokenly. “So perfect, my perfect wife with her perfect pussy and her perfect tits—” His words dissolve into a low groan, still softly massaging your walls, the stretch so good it makes your legs tremble around his hips.

“Jamie, more.” You mewl, your hips twitching up helplessly. “Wanna feel you inside, need you to come over and over until it takes again. Jamie, pretty please?”

Bucky grits his teeth.

You can’t stay stuff like that, not when it’s only been two months. Not when he’s been desperate to see you round with his baby once more. Not when you are leaking milk from your breasts while begging for his cock.

“Can’t, babygirl.” He pants. You make your displeasure known loudly with a little wail, clinging tightly onto his shoulders.

“Please, Jamie.” Tears form at the corners of your eyes as your orgasm builds steadily in your belly.

“I know doll, I know. ‘M sorry, ‘m so sorry.”

Your body goes rigid for a second before turning pliant under his calloused hand abandoning your hips to properly take care of your swollen clit. Your pussy clenches, little squeaky moans slipping from your lips and muffled into his hair as you hug Bucky closer to your chest, sagging against him.

“Gonna make it up to you, baby, I swear.” He slurs out dizzily. “Wanna keep this pussy full and give my pretty wife all the babies she wants.”

“Jamie! Close—‘m so close, don’ stop.” He desperately focuses on matching the rhythm of his fingers thrusting inside with the ones rubbing your clit, savoring the eager twitches his cock gives at your pussy tightening.

Bucky then parts his lips, blindly mouthing at your skin until they finally latch onto your nipple once more, and start sucking like a wounded man seeing water after days spent under the scorching sun.

At the intense pressure around your sensitive nubs, the knot in your belly gets tighter and tighter. Your toes curl, and your orgasm finally hits you violently. You come with a gasp, the tension in your belly shattering all at once as your head falls back. Your chest pushes against his greedy mouth, flinching and panting as you find yourself stuck in a limbo of maddening pleasure with Bucky’s fingers still relentless on your pussy, even when small tears run down your cheeks.

And then, your husband grunts loudly, harshly exhaling against the fat of your chest. 

“Fucking—shit.” His mouth leaves your nipple with a wet pop, and his head slowly lifts up, leaving your wet nubs exposed to the cold air of the kitchen. You shiver at the change of temperature, slumping against his shoulders as you feel your tits tingle with overstimulation.

He is gentle in removing his fingers from your puffy core, finally embracing you as you mourn the loss. His chin lazily rests on the top of your head for a bit, small kisses swarming your glistening forehead in hopes of easing the trembling of your limbs.

That’s when you see it. Opening your eyes with effort, you are directly met with the sight of a huge stain right on Bucky’s crotch, the grey fabric of his sweatpants darker in that exact place. 

“Did you just come in your pants, baby?” You raise your head to look at him with a little grin.

Bucky’s already flushed cheeks flame up, and his eyes refuse to meet yours. Instead, he buries his face in the valley between your tits, hugging you tight. 

“Sorry.” He mumbles. “Are you okay? Does anything hurt? Was it good?”

“No need to be sorry.” You hum. “It was so hot, Jamie.” Sighing satisfied, your arms wrap around his neck to caress his hair. 

“I’ll help you from now on.” He adds solemnly, looking straight into your eyes. “After you pump out the milk for Bean, I get the last bits.” You can’t help but burst out laughing before pressing a kiss to his cheek. 

“Alright, alright. But baby, you are at work until late in the afternoon.”

“Don’t care.” He grunts, nuzzling your neck like a cat in need of cuddles. “I’ll do it at night.” Your eyes widen, immediately protesting.

“Bucky, no. You already take care of Bean when he wakes up throughout the night, then wake up early to go to work… I won’t wake you up just to—to drink my milk.” Your cheeks heat up at the absurdity of your statement.

Bucky huffs, coming out of his hiding place with an offended wrinkle between his brows. 

“Doll,” he whines just like a kid trying to convince his mom to stay up later on a school day. His head falls back tiredly. “I’m a super soldier. The super soldier. I don’t need to rest.”

With a sigh you shake your head at his apparently innocent eyes, vaguely reminding you of Alpine when she’s trying to soften you up after pushing something off the table that probably ended up shattering on the floor. 

“Please, please, please!” He attacks you with kisses, delicately holding your pliant body in his arms as his lips travel from your face to the slope of your neck, and then back up again.

Your attempts at keeping your laugh down are awful, but you can’t help it when your husband is being this adorable. 

“Alright alright! Hey—okay stop, please stop! Stop!” Your lips press together to avoid releasing any loud noise that could potentially interrupt this rare, peaceful night.

Finally, Bucky relents, one hand cradling your cheek while the other massages your lower back with purpose.

“Promise?” His eyebrows raise expectantly and you just have to kiss him. 

“Yeah yeah, promise, you hungry super soldier.” 

“Good.” He mumbles against your mouth, following your lips for another kiss. “Now, let me properly take care of my wife.”

“What—Bucky!” You gasp as he picks you up, making his way towards the couch.

A devious grin blooms on his handsome face when you whimper at the way he deliberately moves your hips so your puffy folds brush against his imposing bulge with every step he takes. 

“Tell me sweet girl, since I can’t fill you up yet, where do you want it? Face or tits?”

— ⟢ END NOTES: thank you so much for reading! my masterlist → winteryn's masterlist

There’s something peculiar about the way a woman can be broken without ever making a sound.

No cracks. No gasps. No shattering porcelain on the floor.

Just a quiet kind of nothing that settles behind her eyes like dust on a windowsill, inevitable and slowly turning everything gray.

You were folding laundry when you found it.

One of Brock’s white shirts. The expensive kind. Egyptian cotton, triple-stitched, with his initials monogrammed just inside the collar—BRR—like a cattle brand stamped into the fabric. You’d pressed it yourself that morning, running the iron over the sleeves in slow, methodical passes, breathing in the steam and starch and the faint ghost of his cologne.

And then you saw it.

Lipstick.

Not yours.

Too red. Too loud. The kind of colour worn by women who laugh too hard at dinner parties and drink too much gin straight from the glass. Women who don’t bother to wipe the smudge off the rim before they hand it back to the waiter.

Right there, faint but certain, a smear near the collarbone. Just a whisper of crimson against the white. Like a signature. Like a taunt.

You didn’t scream or crumble. You just held the shirt between your fingers and stared at that mark like it was a wine stain on the wallpaper. Inconvenient and not even worth fussing about.

Because this is what it meant to be Mrs. Rumlow. And you had no one to blame but yourself.

After all, you weren’t swept off your feet. You were just worn down.

Brock pursued you the way a dog gnaws a bone—persistent and aggressive. He asked you out eight times before you said yes. Called your job every afternoon until the receptionist started putting him through just to shut him up. Sent flowers to your apartment; carnations, always carnations, because he never bothered to learn what you actually liked. Showed up at your mother’s dinner parties with that performative charm, shaking hands, kissing cheeks, grinning like he’d already won.

And everyone else loved him.

Your friends said he was handsome. Your mother said he had prospects. Your father just nodded and shook his hand and called him a good man.

You didn’t feel anything at all really.

But the word “yes” started falling out of your mouth like clockwork. Yes to dinner. Yes to letting him in. Yes to the ring—heavy and perfect and exactly what a girl should want. Yes to the house with the white picket fence and the immaculate lawn. Yes to the title—Mrs. Rumlow.

Yes. Yes. Yes.

Until suddenly you were thirty, standing in your laundry room at two in the afternoon, holding a man’s shirt that didn’t even smell like you anymore.

And what now? You could confront him. Cry, maybe. Throw a tantrum. Smash a vase against the wall and watch the pieces scatter across the hardwood.

But for what? To make him feel bad for fifteen minutes before he went right back to doing whatever he pleased? To force an apology you knew wouldn’t mean a thing?

No, thank you.

You hung the shirt neatly over the back of the chair, the way you’d been taught, and went back to folding towels. Matching corners. Smooth stacks. The rhythm of it steadied something in your chest.

That afternoon, you made a lemon cake.

You creamed the butter and sugar until it was pale and fluffy. You zested the lemons until your fingers smelled sharp and bright. You poured the batter into the pan and watched it rise through the oven door, golden and perfect. You whipped the frosting by hand until your arm ached, then spread it in smooth, even layers across the top.

And when you sat down in your immaculate kitchen—surrounded by the hum of the refrigerator and the ticking of the clock, with a slice of cake on a china plate in front of you—you took a bite.

The frosting was just a little too sweet.

You felt absolutely nothing at all.

Dinner was silent.

You set the pot roast on the table, the porcelain platter warm against your palms, steam curling upward like cigarette smoke in a half-empty bar. The scent of rosemary and roasted carrots hung in the air, filling the dining room with something that smelled like home… even if it didn’t feel like one.

Brock thanked you without looking up from the newspaper.

The words came out flat, automatic, as if spoken by a machine. He ate quickly, efficiently, like everything in his life. Fork, knife, chew, swallow. A rhythm of consumption without pleasure. He checked his watch between bites, that little gold-faced wristband catching the chandelier light, and you wondered if he ever really tasted anything at all.

You nodded at the right moments. Smiled when he made a dry comment about work… something about a man named Alexander Pierce, a deal gone sour, a shipment delayed. You didn’t really listen. You just let your mouth move in practiced curves while your eyes drifted to the lipstick stain you’d pressed out of that shirt hours ago.

You poured him another drink when he tapped the glass. The two clinks of his wedding band against the crystal, a wordless request you had long since learned to obey without thought.

You didn’t bring up the lipstick.

Why would you? He would deny it. Or worse—he would tell the truth like it was trivial, like it was nothing more than a spilled drink at a work function, a kiss on the cheek from a client’s wife. He would wave his hand and say you know how these things go, sweetheart, and then he’d go back to carving the roast.

So you kept your mouth shut and your hands steady and your face smooth as porcelain.

After dinner, you washed the dishes while he stood behind you. His hands found your hips in that familiar way, yet less like a husband touching his wife and more like a man checking the fence posts on his property. You didn’t flinch or lean back into him. You just let the warm water run over your fingers and watched the soap bubbles pop one by one against the stainless steel.

He guided you upstairs without a word.

In the bedroom, he didn’t turn on the lights. He never did when he was in this mood. It was easier for him to pretend you were anyone he wanted. Easier for you to pretend you didn’t know who he was imagining. Easier for both of you to exist in that shadowed space without having to look each other in the eye.

He unbuttoned your dress halfway, just enough to get what he needed, and pushed inside you with a sigh. The same tired exhale he gave when he loosened his tie after work. A release. Not affection. Not even desire. Just pressure leaving the body, a valve opened after a long day.

He moved like a man finishing a task before bed. His breath warm and stale against your neck, tinged with whiskey and gravy. Your cheek pressed into the pillow, eyes open in the dark, staring at the faint crack in the ceiling where the moonlight bled through the curtains.

You didn’t make a sound. You didn’t tremble or cling or gasp. You just lay there, letting him take what he thought was his, feeling nothing but the soft thud of your heartbeat in your ear and the slight friction of the sheets against your thighs.

When he came, he groaned your name like an afterthought and rolled off you immediately. A completed chore. The mattress shifted as he settled onto his back, and within minutes his breathing evened out into the low, rough snore you’d grown accustomed to.

You pulled the sheets back up to your chin and lay on your back, staring at the ceiling.

The moonlight cut pale lines across the room, sharp and silver, like broken glass scattered on the floor. You traced them with your eyes, following the angles where they crossed the crown molding, the light fixture, the corner where the wallpaper had begun to peel ever so slightly.

They didn’t point anywhere. They didn’t mean anything. They were just lines of light falling across a dark room where a woman lay next to a man who didn’t see her.

The ache between your legs was faint now, fading into something distant and numb. You folded your hands over your stomach, fingers interlaced, like a woman lying in a casket.

The ceiling fan hummed above you, a low mechanical drone that filled the silence with something almost like comfort.

Then you let sleep pull you under, still hollow, still quiet, still waiting for something to crack.

Tuesday

You sat in the kitchen with a cigarette burning between your fingers and your second cup of coffee growing cold on the counter, wearing a satin robe the colour of pale champagne; too soft, too pretty, too delicate for a life this dull. The fabric whispered against your skin with every small movement, a reminder that you still had a body, still had nerve endings, still had wants that went unacknowledged.

The floor was spotless. Linoleum gleaming under the morning light, every crumb swept, every scuff wiped away. The breakfast dishes were stacked neatly in the drying rack, porcelain and ceramic arranged like soldiers at attention. Everything in its place. Everything perfect.

And for a moment, just one dizzy, suffocating moment, you considered what it would be like if you just… walked out.

Not packed. Not explained. Not left a note. Just stood up, pushed back the chair, and let the front door click shut behind you without a backward glance. No destination. No plan. Just the simple, radical act of leaving.

You thought about the other wives on the block. Margaret with her twin boys and her perpetual exhaustion. Doris with her tennis club and her too-bright laugh. Eleanor with her country luncheons and her gossip that cut like a finely sharpened knife. All of them busy, all of them pretending they weren’t slowly going mad in their identical houses with their identical husbands and their identical lives.

You didn’t have a baby. You didn’t have a career. You didn’t even have friends you really liked—just women you drank tea with because it was expected, because the calendar said Monday and Wednesday meant bridge club whether you wanted it or not.

You had a house that stayed clean and a husband that didn’t. And every day felt the same.

Breakfast. Clean. Grocery store. Smile politely. Dinner. Dishes. Sex if he remembered. Sleep. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

You stubbed the cigarette out in the ceramic ashtray, the ember hissing against porcelain, and let out a long, slow breath. Maybe you’d bake something today. A cheesecake, perhaps—the one your mother had taught you, the one that took two hours and left your hands smelling of cream and sugar. Or maybe you’d just sit here, watching the clock tick toward noon, counting the minutes until the day blurred into the next one.

Knock. Knock.

Your head turned, like a reflex you hadn’t trained but couldn’t control.

The clock on the wall said 10:45. Which meant it was Tuesday. Which meant—

You already knew before you opened the door.

The morning light spilled across the porch, catching in his hair, turning it something between caramel and chocolate. He stood there in his postal uniform; navy trousers pressed sharp, shirt buttoned to regulation, the leather strap of his mailbag cutting across his chest.

But beneath the uniform, he wore a white t-shirt, the collar just visible at his throat, and he’d cuffed his sleeves once, twice, to show his forearms. Tan skin dusted with fine golden hair, muscles that moved beneath the surface with a boyish, easy strength.

There was a curl stuck to his forehead, dark and damp from the morning humidity. Your fingers itched to push it back.

He smiled when he saw you, that wide, eager grin that made him look like he’d just found something he’d been searching for. “G’mornin’, Mrs. Rumlow.” His voice had a rumble to it, low and warm. “You’re lookin’ mighty pretty this mornin’.”

The words landed somewhere in your chest, like a stone dropped into still water. You didn’t smile back, not the full thing, anyway. Just a curve at the corner of your mouth, a softening of your eyes. You held the doorframe with two fingers, the satin of your robe draping against the painted wood.

“Thank you, James.” His name felt intentional on your tongue, drawn out just a little longer than necessary. “Right on time, I see.”

Bucky scratched the back of his neck, a gesture so young, so unpolished, it made something tighten in your stomach. “You know me, ma’am. Gotta keep to a schedule.” He laughed once, a short breath of sound. “Wouldn’t wanna disappoint.”

Disappoint. The word hung in the air between you, weighted with something neither of you acknowledged aloud.

He pulled the letters from his bag with careful hands; one bill, one catalog, one cream-coloured envelope with your mother’s looping handwriting on the front. He offered them to you, and you reached out to take them, your fingers brushing his in the exchange.

A whisper of contact. Barely anything at all. But your skin remembered it. Tingled with it. Held onto it like a secret.

You looked down at the envelopes, then back up at him. His cheeks were flushed, that telltale pink climbing up from his collar, and he was looking at you like you were something more than a housewife in a bathrobe holding a stack of bills.

“You have a good day now, ma’am,” he said, quieter this time, as if the words were meant only for the space between you.

The ma’am made something in your chest loosen. It wasn’t condescending, not the way Brock said it when he was irritated, a dismissive verbal pat on the head. This was different. Like being called something sacred.

“Thank you, James.” Your voice came out steadier than you felt. “I’ll see you Thursday.”

His grin widened, a flash of white teeth, and he touched the brim of his cap like a soldier saluting. “Yes, ma’am. Thursday.”

Bucky turned and walked back down the path, his stride easy and confident, the mailbag swinging against his hip. You watched him go, fingers still pressed to the doorframe, the letters clutched against your chest. He glanced back once, just before the hedge swallowed him from view, and caught your eye.

He didn’t wave. Neither did you.

But the look he gave you lingered long after he disappeared.

You closed the door slowly and leaned against it, the wood cool against your back through the thin satin. And suddenly, all you could think about was Thursday.

All you could think about was him.

Thursday

You put on lipstick before breakfast.

Not the usual pale pink you wore to bridge club or church, the kind that barely registered on your lips, a ghost of colour meant to be respectable and forgettable. No. Today, you reached for the tube tucked behind the vanity mirror, the one you’d bought weeks ago on a whim and never worn. A glossier red. Crimson. The kind of shade that demanded attention.

It wasn’t quite as brazen as the stain on Brock’s collar’ that shade had been brighter, cheaper, applied with less care, but it was close. Close enough to feel like a statement. Close enough to feel like your own small rebellion.

You curled your hair, too. The iron hissed against the strands, shaping them into soft curls that brushed your shoulders. You ironed your best blouse, cream silk with mother-of-pearl buttons, and paired it with a navy skirt that cinched at your waist and fell just below your knees. You dabbed perfume behind your ears, at your wrists, between your breasts, letting the scent settle into your skin like a secret.

All for what? A two-minute doorstep exchange.

Maybe.

But it had been a long time since you got ready for someone. A long time since you’d felt the flutter of anticipation in your chest, the nervous checking of your reflection, the quiet thrill of wondering if he would notice.

And Bucky? He always noticed.

The morning moved slowly. You tried to busy yourself—made the bed with hospital corners, scrubbed the kitchen counters until they gleamed, cleaned out the icebox with methodical precision. But your hands went through the motions while your mind wandered elsewhere.

You kept glancing at the clock.

10:32.

10:39.

The coffee grew cold in your cup, untouched.

10:44.

Your pulse quickened, an involuntary flutter against your ribs. You wiped your palms on your skirt, smoothed a hand over your hair, touched your lips to check the lipstick was still perfect.

Then—

Footsteps on gravel.

Your breath caught. You straightened your posture, squared your shoulders, and walked to the front door with a calm you didn’t feel. You opened it before he could knock, the morning light spilling across the porch and catching him mid-step.

“Well, good mornin’, Mrs. Rumlow.”

He stood there with a toothpick tucked in the corner of his mouth, rolling it lazily between his lips. Same cuffed sleeves, same easy stance, same sunshine grin, but something shifted when his eyes landed on you. The grin faltered, just a fraction. His gaze traveled down, then back up, taking his time. Top to bottom. Appreciative. Hungry.

Your skin warmed under the weight of it.

“Why, James,” you said, your voice light and teasing, carrying the faintest lilt of surprise. “You’re lucky I’m dressed. Another ten seconds and you might’ve caught me in a robe.”

He laughed, a low, full sound that rumbled from his chest. “Guess I showed up just in time, then.” He pulled the toothpick from his mouth, tucking it into his shirt pocket, and let his eyes linger on your lips. “You look real nice today, Mrs. Rumlow. That colour suits you.”

You felt the compliment settle low in your belly. You leaned against the doorframe, letting your hip jut out just slightly, letting him see the curve of your waist beneath the silk. “Thursdays feel longer than Tuesdays,” you mused, taking the mail from his outstretched hand. Your fingers brushed his on purpose this time. “I think I like Tuesdays better.”

He cocked his head, watching your fingers trace the edge of the envelope. A slow smile spread across his face, not shy now, not boyish. Something else. “Then I guess I’ll have to make Thursdays worth your while, won’t I?”

There it was. The cocky edge under all that charm. The faintest bite, the shift from sweet to knowing. He wasn’t just flirting anymore, he was answering you.

You felt it in your chest. In your thighs. That quiet, familiar clench that hadn’t visited in years, the one you’d thought had died somewhere between Brock’s indifference and your own resignation.

“You always this flattering to the women on your route?” you asked, tilting your head, keeping your tone airy. But your eyes held his, unflinching.

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Only the pretty ones.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Oh? So just Mrs. McCall across the street, then?”

He laughed again, and God, that laugh. It was warm and genuine, a sound that seemed to come from somewhere deep in his chest. He placed a hand over his heart, feigning offense. “You wound me, Mrs. Rumlow. You know you’re my favourite.”

The way he said it. That confident little smirk. The way his eyes dropped to your lips again, just for a second, before returning to yours, like he was memorising you.

It shouldn’t have made your thighs press together. But it did.

He made no move to step back. You made no move to end the conversation. The morning stretched around you, the only sounds the distant hum of a lawnmower and the thrumming of your own pulse.

“You got plans this weekend?” he asked suddenly.

The question caught you off guard. You blinked, your composure slipping for just a moment. “No,” you admitted. “Just the usual. Laundry. Groceries. Maybe lunch with some women I don’t particularly like.”

He smiled again, wide and wolfish this time. “I could think of better ways to spend a Sunday.”

Your lips parted. You could feel the weight of his words, the implication wrapped in that easy grin. But you didn’t speak.

He stepped back then, finally, breaking the spell slowly. He tipped two fingers to his forehead in a mock salute, his eyes never leaving yours. “See you Tuesday, Mrs. Rumlow.”

“Tuesday,” you repeated, your voice softer than you intended.

He turned and walked down the path, his stride easy, his shoulders broad beneath the blue uniform. You watched him go, watched the way his hips moved, the way his hair curled at the nape of his neck. And this time, when he glanced back, just before the hedge swallowed him, he didn’t just look.

He winked.

You closed the door slowly, and exhaled through your nose, a long, shaky breath you hadn’t realised you were holding. Your heart rattled against your ribs. Your lips still tingled from the weight of his gaze.

You were old enough to know better. Old enough to recognize the danger in a boy who looked at you like you were the sun. But today? You didn’t feel old. You didn’t feel married. You didn’t feel like a housewife in a quiet suburb with a cheating husband and a hollow life.

You felt looked at. You felt chosen. And maybe Bucky had other girls. Maybe he had dozens, scattered across his route like wildflowers. But when he looked at you like that, like you were the only woman on the planet, you let yourself bask in it.

Saturday Night

Brock wanted sex, again.

You could always tell by the way he stood in the doorway after his shower, towel slung low around his hips, rubbing the bridge of his nose like the very thought of wanting you exhausted him. It never felt like desire. It felt like appetite, hunger without taste, a reflex he performed out of schedule rather than longing. He never looked at you the way Bucky did. He looked through you, like you were a task to check off before sleep.

You were propped against the headboard, a copy of Ladies’ Home Journal open in your lap, your eyes scanning the same paragraph three times without reading a word. The magazine had been a shield. A pretense of being occupied. But when Brock padded over and plucked it from your hands, his fingers brushing yours without lingering, you didn’t protest.

He placed it on the nightstand and you watched his shadow fall across the bed.

“You ready for me?” he asked, already knowing the answer. His voice was flat, perfunctory.

“Mhm,” you murmured, the sound soft, neutral. Invitation enough.

He climbed on top of you, the mattress dipping under his weight. His lips found yours in a single, dry kiss , just a press of mouth against mouth before he pulled back. His lips were damp from the shower. Impatient. He pushed your nightgown up over your hips, the cotton gathering in wrinkled bunches around your ribs. The air hit your thighs, cool and indifferent.

“I missed you,” he whispered, but the words were hollow, a script he recited by rote. He didn’t mean it. He never meant it. But the sound still filled the room, settling between you like dust.

You opened your legs because that was the routine. That was marriage. That was being Mrs. Rumlow, a woman who spread her thighs for a man who forgot she had a name beyond the ring on her finger.

He entered you with a grunt. As you felt the familiar weight of a man claiming what he believed belonged to him. His hips settled against yours, and he began to move, steady, mechanical, like the piston of a machine. In. Out. In. Out. His breath hot against your neck.

It didn’t hurt. It didn’t feel good. It felt like nothing.

You stared over his shoulder at the wall. The pattern in the wallpaper blurred as your focus drifted. The lamp on the nightstand flickered once, a tired bulb. The headboard creaked with each thrust, a rhythmic complaint that had long since become white noise. You counted the creaks. Six. Seven. Eight. You wandered through the numbers like hallways, searching for somewhere else to be.

Your mind wandered. It always did. But tonight it wandered somewhere new.

James Buchanan Barnes.

You pictured him without even meaning to. The curve of his smile, that boyish confidence that didn’t know its own power. His hands, rough and calloused from sorting mail and lifting parcels, curling around envelopes with a casual grace. Forearms tight and sun-browned, taut with youth and strength, so much younger than they should be for how much they made you ache.

You imagined those hands on your waist instead. Sliding over the curve of your hip. Fingers digging in like he was afraid you might slip through them, like he wanted to hold on so tight he’d leave bruises you could press in the morning and remember.

Brock groaned into your shoulder. A sound of effort, not passion. You barely heard it.

Your mind was in your foyer. Sunlight streaming through the side window, catching the gold in James’s hair, turning it to chocolate brown. His eyes dropping to your lips and the quiet hitch of his breath when he realised you were wearing red today. The way his tongue touched his bottom lip before he spoke.

You imagined him standing too close. Close enough that you could smell the soap on his skin, the faint salt of a morning’s work. You imagined him saying your name with that low rasp, Mrs. Rumlow, not as a title, but as a confession. Almost shy. Almost cocky. Almost daring you to stop him.

You imagined him whispering something filthy in your ear. Something a young man should never say to a married woman. Something you would let him say anyway, would crave him to say, would press your thighs together under the kitchen table and pretend not to hear.

“I think about you when I’m alone, Mrs. Rumlow. Late at night. Do you think about me?”

Brock picked up his pace. His breathing turned heavy, tight, a rhythm he knew by heart. His hips slapped against yours, harder now, more insistent. Your body moved out of habit—a practiced arch of your back, a soft sound you’d learned to make at the right intervals. But you weren’t there.

You were in the kitchen with Bucky, morning light streaming through the lace curtains. Your robe hanging open. His mouth hot on your throat, trailing down, down, tasting the perfume you’d dabbed there just for him. His voice unsteady and hungry, cracking with want. His hand sliding up your thigh, like he had been dreaming about the feel of your skin for months.

“Tell me you want this,” he’d whisper. “Tell me you want me.”

You imagined him losing control. The careful restraint crumbling. The boyish charm replaced by something ravenous, something that needed you so badly it frightened him. You imagined him taking you right there against the counter, your back arching, your fingers tangled in his hair, every sound you made pulling him deeper.

Your breath caught. Heat crawled up your spine like fingers tracing vertebrae. Your nails dug into the sheets, white-knuckled, pulling the fabric taut.

Brock didn’t notice.

You came quietly. An involuntary gasp against his shoulder, a tremour that ran through your thighs and settled deep in your belly. You bit down on the sound, swallowed it whole. You didn’t want him to know why. You didn’t want him to know it wasn’t for him.

He finished thirty seconds later with a strained grunt, his body tensing, his release hot and forgettable. He collapsed on top of you, a dead weight, sweating and satisfied, completely ignorant. His breath evened out against your neck, slowing into the rhythm of a man who had taken what he wanted and was already forgetting he’d had it.

“I missed you,” he said again. A kiss pressed to your shoulder, empty of meaning.

You closed your eyes. Your pulse settled slowly, like dust after a storm.

Your husband had made you orgasm for the first time in years. And he would never know that he had nothing to do with it.

You lay there under Brock’s weight, the lamp flickering, the headboard silent now. Your fingers still curled in the sheets. Your skin still tingled where you’d imagined Bucky’s hands.

You thought about Tuesday. You thought about the red lipstick in your vanity drawer. You thought about the way James’s eyes had dropped to your lips this morning, hungry and hopeful, like a boy ready to sin.

And you smiled in the dark.

Tuesday came again.

And so did you.

Not physically. Not yet. But God, did you want to.

You spent the morning choosing your clothes with the kind of care you usually reserved for holidays or funerals. A blush pink blouse with three buttons undone, sleeves rolled just past your elbows. An indecent skirt that hugged your hips when you walked. You applied your lipstick slowly, blotting against tissue paper until the colour was perfect, a deep, shameful red that screamed look at me.

You heard the mail truck before you saw him. The low rumble of the engine, the crunch of gravel, the squeak of brakes. Your pulse quickened. You stepped onto the porch just as he rounded the corner of the driveway, satchel slung over one shoulder, a stack of envelopes in his hand.

He looked up. Saw you. Stopped.

The sun caught the sweat on his brow, glistening on his temple. He was so young. It made your stomach tighten.

“Mornin’, Mrs. Rumlow.” His voice came out a little rough. He cleared his throat. “Got your usual. Couple of bills. A catalog.”

You smiled and stepped forward. Close enough that the breeze carried your perfume straight to him. You saw his nostrils flare, just slightly—, efore he caught himself.

“That’s very kind of you to bring them right to the door,” you said, letting your voice dip low. “Y’know most mailmen would just toss them in the box.”

“I like makin’ sure you get yours proper.” He held out the envelopes. His fingers brushed yours when you took them. Lingered. You didn’t pull away.

You looked up at him through your lashes. “You’re good at your job, James.”

He smiled, crooked and shy. “Only ‘cause the scenery’s nice.”

You laughed softly. “Careful. You’ll spoil me.”

“Well, maybe you deserve to be spoiled.”

The words hung in the air between you, heavy and warm. He didn’t look away. Neither did you.

Thursday came with a different kind of heat.

Thick and humid, the kind that clung to your skin and made everything feel slow. You wore a sundress, thin straps, low neckline, the fabric loose enough to hint at what lay beneath without giving everything away. No stockings. No slip. Just your body and cotton and the knowledge that the afternoon sun would make the dress cling to every curve.

You heard the truck at the usual time. You opened the door before he could knock.

This time you leaned out a little too far as you reached for the envelopes. Let the neckline gape. Let him see the swell of your breasts, the shadow between them, the way your skin glistened from the humidity.

His eyes dropped.

It was only for a second. Less. But you saw it. The way his jaw twitched. The way his hand tightened around the mail he was holding, crinkling the edge of an envelope.

“Thanks, James.” You straightened slowly, letting him see the smile playing on your lips.

“Y-yes ma’am.” He swallowed. “You have a good day now.”

“I plan to.”

You closed the door and leaned against it, heart pounding. That night, you ran a bath so hot the mirror fogged over. You lay in the water with your knees bent, steam curling around your face, and you let your hand drift between your thighs.

You imagined him on his knees in front of the tub. His hands gripping the porcelain. His eyes on you, dark and hungry. The way he’d look up at you before lowering his head.

“Please, Mrs. Rumlow. Let me taste you.”

You pressed your fingers deeper, biting down on your own wrist to muffle the sound. You came with his name on your tongue, barely whispered, lost in the steam.

Tuesday

The heat came early that morning, crawling through the window screens like something alive. Thick and unforgiving. By the time the clock struck ten, the air in the house had gone still and heavy, pressing against your skin like a warm palm.

You didn’t bother dressing.

There was no point. Brock had left before sunrise, a muttered goodbye and the slam of the front door, off to wherever it was he went when he wasn’t here. The house was yours.

You slipped into your favourit pink champagne robe. You tied it just once at the waist, loose enough that the fabric fell open when you moved, baring the slope of your collarbone, the shadow between your breasts, the long line of your thigh as you walked from the bedroom to the kitchen.

No bra. No slip. Just your skin beneath the silk, damp from the humidity.

The clock ticked to 10:45.

Right on schedule.

You’d been standing at the kitchen window, watching the street through the sheer curtain, a glass of ice water sweating in your hand. You saw the mail truck pull up. Saw him step out, satchel slung over his shoulder, wiping the back of his hand across his brow.

He looked up at your house. Paused. Adjusted his collar.

You smiled to yourself, set down the glass, and walked to the door.

Knock, knock.

You waited two beats—long enough to seem unhurried, not long enough to seem reluctant. Then you turned the knob and pulled the door open.

The heat hit you first, a wall of it, thick and wet. It smelled like cut grass and pavement and the faint, clean sweat of a young man who’d been working under the sun.

And there he was.

Bucky Barnes, all six feet of him, backlit by the morning glare. The light caught his cheekbones, the sharp line of his jaw, the brown strands of his hair darkened with sweat and plastered to his forehead. His uniform shirt was unbuttoned halfway, the fabric gaping open to reveal the smooth plane of his chest, the sun-warmed skin, the fine sheen of sweat that made it gleam.

He had a stack of mail in one hand. The other hung loose at his side, fingers twitching like he didn’t know what to do with them.

His eyes met yours.

And then they dropped.

Down your body. Over the open V of your robe. Down to your bare legs, the curve of your calf, the way the silk shifted when you breathed. It wasn’t a glance. It was a slow and helpless look and he didn’t even try to hide it.

You saw the exact moment his brain caught up with his body. His throat moved. His jaw tightened. His gaze snapped back to your face, but it was too late. You’d already seen everything.

“M-Mornin’, Mrs. Rumlow.”

The stutter was tiny. Barely there. But you heard it, felt it like a small victory.

“Good morning, James.”

Your voice came out low, syrupy, the kind of voice you used when you wanted a man to lean in closer. You let your hand drift up to the doorframe, the movement casual, but it pulled the robe just a fraction tighter across your chest.

“Hot one today,” you murmured, tilting your head. “I thought I’d stay in something a little lighter. The heat’s been unbearable.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. His eyes flickered down again, just for a second, just a brief, helpless slip, before he forced them back up.

“Yeah,” he said, and his voice cracked on the word. He cleared his throat. “Yeah, it’s—real hot. Humid, too.”

“You must be dying out there in that uniform.”

“It ain’t so bad.” He shifted his weight, licked his lips. “Got a good schedule. Nice houses. Nice people.”

He held out the mail. You took it, slowly letting your fingertips brush against his. His skin was warm. His pulse jumped under your touch.

“Thank you,” you said, soft. “I notice you always bring it to me personally. You don’t do that for anyone else, do you?”

He blinked. “I—no, ma’am. I usually just leave it in the box.”

“So why do you bring mine to the door?”

The question hung in the air between you, sweet as poison. He stared at you, and you watched him search for an answer that wouldn’t give too much away.

He failed.

“Guess I like seein’ your face.” His voice dropped, quieter now, almost rough. “You’re always real nice to me. Not everyone is.”

You stepped closer, just enough to bring you into the wedge of sunlight spilling through the doorway. The robe shifted, gaping open at your thigh. You saw his eyes track the movement.

“You like talking to me, James?”

“Yeah.” The word came out breathless. “I really do.”

You let a small smile play at the corner of your mouth. “I like talking to you too.”

A silence settled between you. The air itself seemed to thicken, you could hear the hum of a lawnmower two streets away, the distant bark of a dog, the ragged rhythm of his breathing.

The sun spilled across his shoulders, catching the sweat on his collarbone. Your robe was loose, barely tied, the silk shifting with every shallow rise and fall of your chest. Just standing there, two feet apart, was a kind of intimacy.

You could have kissed him then. You knew he would have let you. You knew he wanted you to. You could see it in the way his pupils had swallowed the blue of his irises, the way his throat worked as he swallowed, the way his gaze kept dropping to your mouth and then darting away, like he was afraid of what he might do if he looked too long.

Instead, you smiled.

“Would you like some lemonade?”

The question hung in the air like a dare. His eyes snapped to your mouth, then back up, and you watched him process what you’d just offered. The invitation. The implication. The fact that you weren’t asking him to leave.

He nodded. Too quickly. His voice cracked when he spoke.

“Yeah. Sure. I’d—I’d like that.”

Come in.

You didn’t say it. You just stepped back, letting the door swing open wider, and turned without another word. Bare feet on cool tile. The soft whisper of silk against your thighs. You walked ahead of him, letting him follow, letting him watch.

The robe shifted when you moved, slipping off one shoulder, brushing the backs of your knees, the hem fluttering just above the curve of your calf. You didn’t look back. You didn’t need to. You could feel his gaze on you like a hand at your waist, trailing down your spine, settling low.

The house was quiet. Too quiet. No radio humming. No laundry churning. Just the low buzz of the ceiling fan from the living room and the soft, steady tick of the wall clock over the sink.

The kitchen blazed with sunlight pouring through the open windows, catching the dust motes drifting in the still air. The counters gleamed. A half-used lemon sat on the cutting board from this morning. The whole room smelled faintly of citrus and sugar and the clean scent of dish soap.

“Sit,” you said gently, motioning toward the stools at the counter. “I’ll get the lemonade.”

He obeyed. Quietly. He set his satchel down on the counter, then pulled out one of the stools, the legs scraping against the tile. He sat, watched you, said nothing. His hands rested on his thighs, fingers flexing.

You moved unhurriedly. Opened the refrigerator door. Let the cold air wash over you. Bent slowly, reaching all the way to the back for the glass pitcher, knowing exactly how the robe tightened across the backs of your thighs, knowing exactly how the hem rose just a little higher when you stretched.

When you straightened and turned, his eyes snapped up too fast. A flush crept up his neck. He’d been staring. Caught.

You didn’t acknowledge it. Just smiled to yourself and poured two tall glasses, condensation already beading on the glass.

You set one in front of him. Then took the stool across the counter, crossing your legs as you settled. The robe fell open at the knee, baring the length of your thigh. You saw him glance down, then force himself to look at the lemonade.

You brought the glass to your lips. Sipped. Let the cold sweetness coat your tongue. When you set it down, you licked a stray drop from your lower lip, slow enough to make him shift in his seat.

“Still hot out,” you said, your voice light, conversational. “Not used to this kind of heat. Makes a woman crave something cold.”

He swallowed. “Yeah. It’s—it’s bad this week.” His voice was rough, like he’d been shouting, though he’d barely spoken a word.

You tilted your head, studying him. “You alright, sweetheart? You look a little flushed.”

His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. “Just warm,” he managed.

“Mmm.” You rested your chin on your palm, elbow on the counter, watching him. “You know, you’re always so nice. I really like that about you.”

He blinked, caught off guard. “Ma’am?”

“A lot of boys your age wouldn’t be so kind to someone like me.”

His brow furrowed. “Someone like you?”

You smiled, bittersweet, letting your gaze drop. “A housewife,” you murmured. “Married. Boring. A little past my prime, I suppose.”

The words hung in the air. You felt the weight of them, the small lie you were telling, the way you were baiting him.

He sat up straighter. His jaw tightened. “You’re not past anything.”

You looked at him, surprised by the sudden heat in his voice.

“You’re—” He broke off, dragging a hand through his damp hair. His ears were red. “You’re beautiful, Mrs. Rumlow.”

The silence stretched between you. The ceiling fan turned overhead, stirring the warm air. Somewhere outside, a bird called. The ice in your glass settled with a soft clink.

You held his gaze a second longer than was appropriate. Then you took another sip of your lemonade, letting the moment breathe.

“That’s very sweet of you to say, James.” Your voice was quieter now. Softer. “Very sweet.”

He swallowed hard. His fingers tightened around his glass, knuckles white, like he was bracing himself against something.

For a while, neither of you said anything.

Just sat in the sun-warmed silence, pretending to be casual while the air thickened between you like honey left too long on the stove. The whole world had narrowed to this kitchen, this counter, this boy with his hands wrapped around a glass like it was the only thing keeping him tethered.

You shifted in your seat, uncrossing your legs and recrossing them the other way. The silk whispered against your skin.

His eyes dropped. You felt them like a touch, the way they traced the line of your thigh where the robe had fallen open, the way they lingered on the curve of your knee, the shadow above it. He watched the slow slide of your fingers over your glass, watched the way you wet your lips without thinking, and you watched him right back, cataloging every small tell.

The way his breath stalled when you moved. The way his knuckles went white. The way he bit his lower lip—just the tiniest flicker of restraint cracking, the pressure of his teeth against the soft flesh making you feel something warm and dangerous coil low in your belly.

You caught him. You didn’t say a word. Just smiled, the kind that said, I saw you. It’s alright. I wanted you to.

He bit his lip harder, then let it go. His mouth stayed parted, pink and slightly swollen.

You leaned forward, elbows on the counter, voice dropping to just above a whisper. “Do you like coming here, James?”

The question was simple. Innocent in its phrasing.

He looked up. Met your eyes. Nodded, like he was admitting something he’d been holding back for weeks.

“Yeah,” he said, like gravel scraped smooth by water. “I really do.”

You let the silence fall again, full and heavy and humming. And then, with the softest, most dangerous smile you owned. “Good,” you whispered. “Me too.”

You stood from your stool, the wood scraping softly against the tile. Took your empty glass to the sink, and rinsed it slowly, letting the water run over your fingers, watching the last traces of lemon and sugar swirl down the drain. The tap hummed. The water was cool against your heated skin.

You lifted your eyes to the window above the sink, watching his distorted reflection in the glass. He was staring at your back. The curve of your spine through the thin silk. The dip of your waist. The way your hips swayed just slightly as you shifted your weight from one foot to the other.

Finally, you turned off the tap. Shook the excess water from your hands. Dried them slowly on a dish towel hanging from the oven handle.

Then you spoke.

“Tell me something, James.”

Your voice was soft. Curious.

“Yes, ma’am?”

You turned around slowly, hips resting against the counter’s edge, the thin silk of your robe parting just a little as it settled around your waist. The morning light caught the curve of your hip, the shadow of your navel, the soft swell of your breasts beneath the fabric.

You watched his eyes follow it.

“Do you flirt with every woman on your route,” you asked gently, tilting your head, “or only me?”

His mouth opened, then closed. He actually blinked, like he needed to reset his brain, like the question had short-circuited something vital. His ears reddened. His hands tightened on the glass again, then relaxed as he set it down carefully, as if afraid he might break it.

“Only you,” he said quietly. The words came out steady, but his voice trembled at the edges. “Only ever you.”

You nodded once. As if that confirmed something you already knew, something you’d suspected since the first time he lingered a little too long at your door, since the first time his fingers brushed yours when he handed you the mail.

Then you walked toward him.

Slow steps. Bare feet on cool tile. The sun fell across your path, warm on your shoulders, and you felt beautiful in a way you hadn’t in years. Not for Brock. Not for anyone else. For yourself. For the way this boy’s eyes followed every inch of you like you were something sacred.

When you reached him, you placed your hand lightly on the counter beside his shoulder. Not touching him. Close enough that he could feel the warmth radiating from your skin. You leaned in just slightly, letting him smell your perfume.

His breath hitched so sharply it almost broke your composure. You felt a thrill run through you, sharp and electric.

“Look at me,” you whispered.

He did.

You let your gaze drag over his face, the strong line of his jaw, the delicate curve of his lips. The way his blue eyes had gone dark, pupils blown wide, the colour swallowed by want. The way his throat worked as he swallowed again, the Adam’s apple bobbing.

You let your fingers trail down his forearm. Barely a touch. The lightest brush of your fingertips over the fine hair on his skin, over the warmth of him, over the tremour that ran through his muscles when you made contact.

“You know,” you said softly, your voice a murmur, “you have been very good to me these last few months.”

His chest rose. Fell. His lips parted.

“I like our chats, James.”

Your fingers continued their lazy path, tracing the line of a vein, the curve of his wrist. You felt his pulse jump beneath your touch, rapid and wild.

“And I like how you look at me,” you added. “Even when you try not to.”

He swallowed hard. His jaw worked. When he spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper, rough and honest and cracked at the edges.

“I am trying real hard right now.”

You smiled. A slow, sinful curl of your lips. “You don’t have to.”

Then, in the softest voice you had used with him yet, “Stand up for me, James.”

He obeyed before he realized he had moved. The stool scraped back against the tile, and suddenly he was towering over you—tall, flushed to the tips of his ears, trying not to tremble.

You stepped closer. Close enough that the fabric of your robe brushed his barely opened shirt. Close enough that your breath touched his mouth. You could feel the heat radiating off him, the slight shake in his hands as they hung at his sides, not quite daring to reach for you.

“You want me,” you said. Not a question. A truth spoken plainly, laid out on the counter between you like a confession.

He nodded. Hard. His jaw worked, and when he spoke, his voice cracked on the first word.

“I been tryin’ not to,” he whispered. “Swear I been tryin’, ma’am. Every time I see you at that door, I tell myself—” He broke off, swallowing. “I tell myself to just hand you the mail and go. Just walk away.”

“But you don’t.”

“No, ma’am.” His eyes dropped to your lips. “I can’t.”

You touched his jaw. The barest brush of your fingertips against the stubble along his cheekbone. He shivered under your touch.

“I don’t want you to try anymore.”

His eyes darkened. Something shifted behind them, the last thread of restraint snapping. What was left was something hungry. Something young and desperate and finally set free. His breathing turned shallow. His hands curled into fists at his sides, then released.

“M-Mrs. Rumlow,” he breathed, voice shaking, “if I touch you I’m not gonna be able to stop.”

You tilted your chin up, lips inches from his. Close enough to taste the warmth of his breath, to see the fine tremor in his lower lip.

“Good.”

That was it. That was the spark.

He grabbed your waist with both hands, strong fingers digging into silk and skin, pulling you into him with a force that stole your breath. His mouth crashed into yours. Hungry and messy and eager. A young man who had been imagining this for months and finally snapped.

You gasped against his lips, and he swallowed the sound, took the chance to push his tongue into your mouth. He tasted like lemonade and something masculine. His hands moved without permission, shoving your robe open at your hips, dragging you against his body like he needed to feel every inch of you through the thin silk.

He kissed you like he was starving. Like you were the first taste of anything real in his short, hungry life. His fingers dug into the soft flesh of your hips, and you felt the tremble in his arms, the barely leashed violence of his need.

You let him. You let him take. You let him lose control.

Because you had been waiting for this. For this exact moment.

You pulled back just enough to whisper against his lips, “Take me, James.”

The hallway was a blur.

You didn't remember crossing it. You didn't remember the robe slipping from your shoulders and pooling on the floor. You didn't remember the bedroom door swinging open, or the way the afternoon light fell across the bed in golden stripes.

What you remembered was the moment Bucky lost control.

The moment his hands gripped your thighs like he needed to hold you in place or he’d fall apart. The moment he lowered you onto the mattress, his body covering yours, the weight of him pressing you into the sheets.

The moment he said your name.

Not ma’am. Not Mrs. Rumlow. Not anything polite or proper.

But your name, whispered like a sin he was dying to commit, like he’d been saving it for this exact moment, tasting it on his tongue for the first time.

“Please,” he breathed, hot against your neck, lips brushing the thrumming pulse at your throat. “Please let me.”

And then he pushed inside you.

Your gasp broke in half. Your fingers clutched the sheets. Your breasts arched into his chest on instinct, a reflexive surrender.

You cunt was soaked, open and ready, aching for him in a way you hadn’t ached for anything in years. But he still felt too big. Too deep. The stretch of him made your eyes roll back, made your breath catch in your throat.

You hadn’t been touched like this in years. Not with intention. Not with fire. Not with the kind of desperate, worshipful need that made you feel like you were the only woman in the world.

“You feel so good,” he groaned, burying his face in the crook of your shoulder. His voice was muffled against your skin, rough and broken. “God, you feel—fuck—”

Each thrust was harder. Needier and more frantic. The headboard knocked against the wall in a steady rhythm, the sound mixing with the ragged fall of his breathing, the wet, slick sound of him moving inside you.

He fucked you like he was making up for every time he watched you from the sidewalk and imagined what you’d sound like under him. Like he’d been storing up this hunger for weeks, months, and finally had permission to let it out.

You dragged your nails down his back and he trembled, a full-body shudder that made him bury himself deeper.

“Easy,” you whispered, breath hot in his ear. “Slow down, sweetheart.”

He shook his head, fucking into you harder, faster, his rhythm falling apart at the edges.

“I can’t,” he said, voice cracking. “I can’t, I’m sorry, I—been wanting you so long—”

You grabbed his jaw. Forced him to look at you.

His pupils were blown, dark as ink. His cheeks were flushed, his lips red and swollen from kissing you too hard. A strand of hair had fallen across his forehead, and he looked wrecked in the most beautiful way.

“Then take what you want,” you said softly, stroking his cheek with your thumb. “Come on, baby. Don’t hold back.”

He broke.

His mouth crashed onto yours again, sloppy and desperate. His hips snapped forward in a brutal rhythm, the headboard slamming the wall in a steady, percussive beat. Each thrust drove the air from your lungs, your tits bouncing with every impact.

He stared at you like he’d never seen a naked woman in his life, like you were something sacred and filthy all at once. His gaze traced the curve of your breasts, the flush spreading across your chest, the way your body moved beneath him.

“You’re so beautiful,” he gasped, the words tumbling out broken. “Been dreamin’ about you in this bed—fuck—thought about it every damn night. Every time I walked past your door, I’d picture you right here, spread out for me.”

You moaned, loud and shameless, your fingers threading through his damp hair and tugging him down. Your mouth met his in a kiss that bruised, tongues sliding, the taste of salt and lemon mingling between you.

He kissed like he fucked. All tongue and breath and raw, unfettered hunger. He sucked your bottom lip into his mouth and moaned into the kiss, his cock still pounding into you with that relentless, youthful urgency.

“You like this?” he panted, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes. His were glassy, pupils blown wide. “You like how I fuck you? Tell me. Please—I need to hear it. I need to know I’m doin’ it right.”

Your voice came out broken, barely recognizable. “Yes. God, yes. Harder—don’t stop—”

His grip shifted. One hand stayed firm on your hip, fingers digging into the soft flesh. The other slid under your thigh, lifting it higher, angling you deeper, opening you to him in a way that made stars burst behind your eyelids.

“Shit—James—”

“I know, I know—feels good, right?” His voice was ragged, breath sawing in and out of his lungs. “I can feel you—fuck—you’re squeezin’ me, ma’am. Like you don’t wanna let me go.”

He was falling apart. You were too. Your nails dragged down his shoulders, leaving red crescents in their wake. Your breath hitched, stuttered, dissolved into a whimper. Your thighs quivered around his waist, the muscles trembling with the effort of holding on.

“Don’t stop,” you whined, the plea ripping out of your throat. “Don’t you dare stop—”

His voice broke completely, cracking under the weight of his own need. “I’m not. I’m not. I’m gonna stay right here—gonna give you everything, Mrs. Rumlow—everythin’ I got—”

Your orgasm hit you so hard you didn’t even register your own moan. It tore through you like a wave, white-hot and blinding, clamping down around him in rhythmic pulses that stole your breath and turned your limbs to jelly. Your back arched off the bed, your fingers twisting in the sheets, your vision going white at the edges.

Bucky’s breath caught in his throat as he felt you clench around him, a sudden grip that dragged him over the edge with you.

“Oh—oh my God—” he gasped, his rhythm faltering, his hips stuttering. “You’re—fuck—you’re cummin’—”

And then he fell apart inside you.

A guttural, broken groan tore out of his chest as he thrust deep burying himself to the hilt while he spilled into you with an urgency that bordered on desperate. His body shook, every muscle taut, his hands clutching your hips like you were the only solid thing in a world that had just tilted sideways.

His forehead fell to your shoulder, his breath hot and uneven against your sweat-slicked skin. He breathed you in; the scent of your perfume, the salt of your skin, the lingering musk of sex, and let out a shuddering exhale.

“Mrs. Rumlow…” he whispered, like a confession. His voice was raw and hoarse. Then, as he slowly pulled out, the loss of him making you feel suddenly empty, he added, “I… I don’t wanna stop.”

You stroked the back of his head gently, your nails grazing the nape of his neck, tracing the fine hairs there. His skin was damp, warm, trembling slightly under your touch.

“You don’t have to, sweetheart,” you murmured, the words low and honeyed.

He lifted his head. His eyes were blown wide, dark and glassy. His hair was a wild mess, plastered to his forehead with sweat. His cheeks were flushed, his lips red and swollen, and under all that, still hard, still pressing against your thigh with stubborn, unapologetic desire.

“I can go again,” he whispered, almost frightened of his own need. “Please let me. I know I just—but I need—please, I ain’t done with you yet.”

Your fingers raked through his damp hair, smoothing it back from his brow. He was so young. So pink. So earnest in his hunger. You’d just let him cum inside you, and he still looked like he wanted to say thank you.

You kissed the corner of his mouth, tasting the salt of his skin.

“Breathe, honey,” you whispered, your lips brushing against his. “You’re not done yet.”

And before he could even answer, you shifted from underneath him, a slow, fluid motion that left him blinking, confused, his body still humming with unspent need. You climbed onto all fours, and looked back over your shoulder at him. The afternoon light caught the curve of your spine, the dip of your waist, the soft swell of your hips.

You looked over your shoulder at him, a lazy, knowing smile curving your lips.

“Come here, James. Show me what else you’ve been dreaming about.”

His eyes went wide. The pupils had already swallowed most of the blue, leaving just a thin ring of colour around the black. His chest heaved, still slick with sweat, a fine sheen glistening across his collarbones and the hollow of his throat.

You didn’t have to tell him twice.

He was already fully hard again, flushed tip, veins twitching along the shaft, the head glistening with a mixture of your combined slick. When he slid behind you, it wasn’t with the frantic rush you expected. He took his time. Let his hands trace the curve of your ass first, palming the roundness like he couldn’t believe it was real.

“Fuck,” he breathed, voice hushed and awed. “You’re perfect. I swear to god—”

“Show me, then,” you said. “Show me how perfect I am.”

His hands tightened. Fingers digging into the soft flesh of your hips, anchoring himself. And then, he pushed in again. Thick and warm, the slick heat of you parting around him like you’d been waiting for this very moment. You moaned like you meant it, your forehead dropping to the sheets as he filled you inch by inch.

“Jesus—still so fuckin’ wet—” he hissed, hips stuttering as he bottomed out, pressing flush against you.

You were. Dripping with the evidence of his first release and still greedy for more. The feeling of him sliding into that already-fucked heat sent a shiver through you, your inner walls clenching instinctively around him.

“Harder,” you rasped, cheek pressed to the mattress, the words muffled but clear. “I can take it. Come on, honey. Fuck me.”

His grip on your hips turned bruising, fingers pressing deep enough to leave marks you’d find tomorrow. His thrusts came harder, deeper, desperate and sloppy with sound. The wet, obscene noise of his cock driving into you filled the room, mingling with his ragged breaths and your broken moans. He was panting behind you, fingers digging in as he drove into you like he wanted to climb inside, to bury himself so deep you’d never forget the shape of him.

You arched your back, pressed into him, gave him more. Your breasts swung beneath you, nipples dragging against the sheets with each impact. The sensation sent sparks through your chest.

“That’s it, baby. That’s it. Use me.”

“You’re gonna ruin me,” he gasped, his voice cracking. “You’re gonna fuckin’ ruin me, ma’am. I’m never gonna be able to look at another woman without thinkin’ of you.”

And you smiled, even as your mouth fell open with another moan as his cock hit that spot deep inside you, the one that made your vision blur and your toes curl.

The room was hot. The sheets wrinkled and twisted beneath you. Skin stuck together wherever you touched, his thighs against yours, his chest against your back when he leaned forward, his breath hot on your shoulder blade. The scent of sex clung to every inch of air; sharp and sweet, salt and musk, the metallic tang of arousal and the warmth of two bodies pushed past their limits.

Slap—slap—slap of skin meeting skin. The desperate whine building in his throat. The soft chant of your name breaking from his lips like a prayer, ma’am, Mrs. Rumlow, please, please, each syllable punctuated by a thrust.

“You like this?” you managed to gasp, your voice frayed at the edges. “Fucking a married woman? In her bed? Filling her up like a good boy?”

He whimpered. The sound was raw, stripped of all pretense.

“Yes—yes, ma’am—fuck—” His rhythm faltered, his hips stuttering as he fought for control. “Please let me cum again. Please. I’ll do anythin’—I’ll be so good—”

You reached between your legs and rubbed your clit with two fingers, the pressure just enough to send sparks up your spine, to tighten the coil building low in your belly. Your hips pushed back to meet his thrusts, driving him deeper.

“Then do it,” you moaned, the words thick with approaching release. “Cum in me, James. Again. Show me how much you want me.”

He buried himself so deep you swore you could feel it in your throat, a fullness that stole your breath, that made your eyes roll back. And with a strangled grunt, he came again.

Pulsing inside you like he never wanted to leave. You felt each spasm, each flood of warmth, each desperate clench of his hands on your hips as he emptied himself into you.

The sensation pushed you over the edge. You followed hard, clenching around him, crying out into the sheets as your body finally gave out. The tremors ran through you in waves, stealing your strength, turning your limbs to jelly. Your arms collapsed beneath you, and you sank into the mattress, cheek pressed to the damp fabric.

But he stayed inside. Held your hips. Rested his forehead on your back and just breathed, hot, uneven puffs of air against your spine.

You didn’t move at first. Didn’t speak. Didn’t reach for the sheets to cover yourself. Just lay there, chest pressed to the mattress, skin hot and slick with sweat and the evidence of what you’d done, your breath slowing in the heavy stillness of the room.

The clock on the nightstand ticked. Somewhere outside, a bird sang. Life continued in the world beyond these walls, oblivious to the sin unfolding in this bed.

You felt the soft drag of Bucky’s fingers down your spine. Tracing each vertebrae like he was memorising you.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispered, voice still shaking, still raw. “I can’t believe that just happened.”

You smiled into the pillow, eyes closed, lips curving against the cotton.

“Believe it,” you murmured, voice rasped and ruined. “You earned it.”

He laughed, a breathless sound that didn’t quite mask the wonder in it, and pressed a kiss between your shoulder blades. His lips lingered, warm and soft.

And then another. And another. Trailing up the ridge of your spine to the nape of your neck, where he nuzzled into the fine hairs there and let out a contented sigh.

“I don’t wanna leave,” he mumbled against your skin. “Ever.”

You hummed, a low, pleased sound. Your hand reached back blindly, finding his head, patting it once.

“Then stay a little longer, sweetheart. Clock’s not even at twelve yet.”

He shifted, pulling out slowly, the loss of him making you feel suddenly empty, a faint ache in its wake.

“Are you okay?” he asked quietly, nosing into your hair, his breath warm against your scalp. The question came out hushed, almost fragile. “Did I—was I too rough?”

You shook your head, eyes half-lidded, a lazy smile tugging at your lips. The pillowcase was cool beneath your cheek, a soft counterpoint to the heat still radiating from your skin.

“No, honey. You were perfect.”

That made him groan, the sound vibrating against your back where his chest pressed flush against you. You could feel his cock twitch, still half-hard against your thigh, a stubborn pulse of warmth that refused to fully subside.

He shifted beside you, curling around your back, fitting himself to the curve of your spine like he’d been made to fill that space. His mouth kept moving, over your shoulder, across the delicate skin where your neck met your collarbone, pressing featherlight kisses that made your breath catch.

“I’ve never…” He paused, his lips still against your skin. “I’ve never felt anything like that.”

His hand slid up your stomach, palm flat, fingers tracing lazy circles into the soft plane of your belly. It came to rest just beneath your breasts, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from his palm.

“You’re so fuckin’ soft,” he whispered, wonder threading through the words. “I can’t stop touching you.”

“Then don’t.”

You meant it. Let him have you. Let him touch and kiss and worship every inch of you until your skin felt new again, until the ghost of Brock’s careless hands was erased entirely, replaced by the devotion of this boy who acted like you were something special.

His lips found your jaw. Your cheek. The slope of your neck where your pulse still fluttered. He kissed the hollow of your throat, and you felt the tip of his tongue.

“Can I stay a little longer?” His voice was quieter now. Stripped of the confident swagger he’d worn on your doorstep. This was the boy beneath the uniform, the one who still got nervous around pretty girls and asked permission like he expected to be denied.

You turned your head, looked him in the eye for the first time since you’d let him fuck you senseless. The blue of his irises was hazy, pupils still blown wide, but there was something raw there too. Something that needed to hear the answer.

“You can stay as long as you want, honey.”

His exhale was shaky. His forehead dropped to yours, nose brushing against your cheek, and he let out a sound that was half-sigh of relief.

“Yeah?”

“Yes, James.”

He smiled. A real one, boyish and crooked.

You lay there for a while, tangled together in the wreckage of the sheets, letting your heartbeat settle, letting the room breathe around you. The afternoon light had shifted, softer now, casting long shadows across the floor.

Bucky eventually had to pull away to dress again. He stumbled a little getting off the bed, his legs still unsteady, and you watched him gather his uniform from where it lay scattered across the floor. He flushed every time he caught your eye, a pink bloom creeping up his neck and across his cheeks.

He kept looking back at you. At your thighs still parted, at the imprint of your body on the mattress he’d just ruined.

You watched him pull his uniform pants back up, hands shaking as he fumbled with the zipper. His tucked-in shirt stuck to the sweat drying on his chest, and he smoothed it down like he was trying to make himself look respectable again.

Like he hadn’t just spent the last hour moaning into your pillow.

When he reached the doorway of your bedroom, his steps slowed. His hand came up to grip the doorframe, knuckles whitening. He hesitated. Then lingered.

“Um… I should… I gotta get back,” he muttered, voice small, almost apologetic. “My route. They’ll notice if I’m gone too long.”

You nodded gently, propping yourself up on one elbow.

He looked down at the floor. At the worn wooden boards. Then at you again, as if drawn by some invisible force.

“Was that… was this just…?”

He swallowed, his jaw flexing as if the words hurt to push past his teeth. “Was it just a one-time thing?”

You didn’t move. Not at first. You let him stand there, already addicted, already terrified of losing something he never thought he could have. The silence stretched, just long enough to make him fidget.

“I… I didn’t mean to cross a line,” he said quickly, the words tumbling out in a rush. “I know you’re married. I just— I couldn’t help it. Every time I saw you at that door, I couldn’t think straight. And if you don’t want to see me again, I—”

You didn’t let him finish.

You slid out of bed, the sheets pooling at your feet, not bothering to cover yourself. The air hit your skin, but you didn’t shiver. You walked toward him slowly, each step intentional, the floorboards creaking beneath your bare feet.

When you reached him, you put your hands on his face, palms against his stubbled jaw, fingers threading into the hair at his temples. His skin was warm, and he leaned into your touch like a man starved for it.

His breath stopped altogether.

And you kissed him.

A slow, sultry kiss, tongue sliding into his mouth, your body pressed against his until you felt the hard line of him through his uniform pants. He groaned softly against your lips, the sound swallowed by the kiss, his free hand coming up to grip your waist like he might fall without you.

His fingers curled into the doorframe with his other hand, white-knuckled, like he needed the support to stay upright. His chest heaved against yours.

When you finally pulled back, his eyes were dazed. Puppy-soft.

You brushed your thumb over his cheek, feeling the faint stubble, the heat still lingering in his skin.

“Baby,” you whispered, lips grazing his, close enough that you felt his breath ghost across your mouth. “I’ll see you again on Thursday.”

He exhaled like you’d just saved his life. Like you’d reached into his chest and wrapped your hand around his heart and told him it was safe to keep beating.

“Thursday,” he repeated, dazed, the word rolling off his tongue like a prayer. “Yeah. Okay. I’ll… I’ll be here.”

You smiled. Soft and sure. A promise sealed in the space between your bodies.

“I know you will.”

He stared at you one last time, like he didn’t want to look away, like leaving meant losing something he’d only just found. His eyes traced your face, your lips, the line of your throat where his mouth had been. Then he forced himself to turn, to walk out of the bedroom, down the hallway, toward the front door.

You followed at a distance, leaning against the wall just inside the living room, watching through the sheer curtain as he stepped outside. He paused on the porch, shoulders tense, one hand pressed over his mouth like he was still trying to understand what you’d done to him.

He walked down the path, past the rose bushes, past the mailbox, towards his truck, his steps heavy and light all at once. At the gate, he stopped. Turned back. Looked at the house.

At the window where you stood, half-hidden behind the curtain.

He didn’t wave, he just looked. A long, searching look that said everything his stammering words couldn’t.

Then he turned and disappeared down the street, his mailbag slapping against his hip, his life forever changed by the woman in the window.

After that Tuesdays and Thursdays became your favourite days of the week.

The clock became your accomplice. You’d watch the hands crawl toward 10:45, feel the familiar flutter build in your chest, absolute anticipation. That electric hum that made everything sharper, brighter, more alive.

By the time his footsteps sounded on the porch, you were already at the door.

He never had to knock again.

The first Thursday after that Tuesday, you opened it before his knuckles could meet wood, and he stood there, mailbag slung across his body, cap in hand, that boyish grin already spreading across his face. But his eyes were different now. Hungrier. Like he’d spent the the last two days reliving every second.

“Good mornin’,” he said, voice low, glancing down the street before stepping inside.

You didn’t bother with pleasantries. You grabbed his collar, pulled him into the kitchen, and pushed him against the counter.

He laughed against your mouth, surprised and delighted. “Damn, woman—”

You bit his lower lip. “Shut up and kiss me.”

He did.

The kitchen became a playground. Flour dusted the counter where he’d lifted you onto it, your legs wrapped around his waist, his hands gripping your hips as he fucked you slow and deep. The sun streamed through the window, catching the sweat on his chest, and you remembered thinking, this is what mornings should feel like.

“I couldn’t stop thinkin’ about you,” he murmured against your throat, thrusting up into you. “All day. Every night.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He buried his face in your neck, breath hot and ragged. “Kept seein’ you in my head. The way you looked at me when I—”

You pulled his head back, made him look at you. “When you what, honey?”

His cheeks flushed. “When I came inside you.”

You smiled, slow and wicked, and clenched around him. He groaned, head falling forward.

“Good,” you whispered. “You keep thinking about it.”

The stairs came next.

It was Tuesday, and you’d been waiting at the top of the staircase when he walked in. You’d worn nothing but his cap, the mailman’s cap you’d stolen from his head the week before, and peered down at him from the landing.

His eyes went wide. His mouth dropped open.

“Mrs. Rumlow…”

“You coming up or not?”

He took the stairs two at a time, but you didn’t let him reach the top. You met him halfway, pushed him onto his knees, and let him bury his face between your thighs right there on the steps. His hands gripped your hips, his mouth worked you until your knees buckled, and you came with your fingers tangled in his hair, your back against the banister, the wood creaking beneath you.

He looked up at you afterward, lips slick, eyes dazed. “I’m gonna get fired if I keep this up.”

You helped him stand, kissed the taste of yourself off his mouth. “Then get fired. I’ll keep you.”

He laughed, breathless, and pulled you into the bedroom.

The dining table became an altar.

It was a Thursday, and you’d set it for two; plates, silverware, a vase of fresh roses, but lunch sat untouched. Instead, he bent you over the mahogany surface, your palms flat against the wood, his body pressed against your back. The china rattled with every thrust. A glass clattered to the floor, shattering.

“Sorry,” he gasped, stilling for a moment.

“Don’t stop.” You pushed back against him. “Don’t you dare stop.”

He didn’t.

Afterward, you lay tangled on the rug, your head on his chest, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your arm. The afternoon light filtered through the lace curtains, casting patterns across the floor.

“I ever tell you what I think about?” he asked quietly.

“What?”

He turned his head, kissed your hair. “When I’m out on my route. Walkin’ up all those driveways. I pretend every door is yours. Every house. Just… imagine your face, waitin’ for me on the other side.”

You lifted your head, looked at him. “That’s sweet, James.”

His ears went red. “Yeah, well. Don’t tell nobody.”

The Cadillac was your pièce de résistance.

Brock had taken it out just once that month, to some dinner with his boss, and he’d left it in the garage, waxed and gleaming, untouched. You knew exactly where he kept the spare key.

You led Bucky out there with your fingers laced through his, past the gardening tools and the oil-stained floor. When he saw the car, he stopped.

“Shit. You’re not serious.”

“Open the door.”

“Mrs. Rumlow, your husband will kill me if he finds out—”

“Bucky.” You turned, pressed yourself against him, looked up through your lashes. “Don’t you want to know what it feels like to fuck another man’s wife in his own car?”

His breath caught. His hands trembled. And then he was fumbling with the door handle, pushing you into the backseat, following you in.

The leather was cool against your skin. The windows fogged up fast. He moved above you, inside you, his mouth against your ear, whispering things that would’ve made a priest blush.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he breathed.

“Then die happy, sweetheart.”

He came with a shudder, his face pressed into your shoulder, his body shaking. You held him through it, ran your fingers through his damp hair, felt the last tremors ripple through him.

He pulled back, looked at you like you’d rewritten the stars.

“I don’t have much,” he said softly. “But everything I got? It’s yours.”

You cupped his face, kissed him slow. “I know, baby.”

And every time, he looked at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

The way he’d trace the lines of your face afterward, like he was memorising you. The way he’d whisper your name. The way he’d hold you after, his arms wrapped around you like he was afraid you’d disappear.

Maybe you weren’t in love. Not the kind you read about in books, anyway. Not the kind that lasted.

But you were wanted.

Every Tuesday. Every Thursday. Every time he stepped through that door, you saw it in his eyes; that hungry, desperate, devoted look that said you were the best part of his week, the secret he’d carry to his grave, the woman who’d ruined him for anyone else.

And for now, that was enough.

a/n | yeah reading back on this, it’s very repetitive in some parts, maybe that’s why i didn’t post it, srry for keeping this fic hostage for eight months chat

but… Yeah! thx for reading

You’ve been destined to become Princess Becca’s helper since you were born. Your mother had served the family for two generations; you were born in the palace, raised in the hustle and bustle of the castle with all the live-in staff. You spent years refining your cooking skills in the kitchen that seemed to function twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, decades toiling away in the garden with the landscaper to take care of the queen’s prized roses, and occasionally sneaking into the palace library for a quick novel or two when your mother took her eyes off you.

It was a natural pathway for someone who wasn’t born to nobility yet was constantly surrounded by it. 

Fortunately, growing up in this kingdom that is governed with kindness and compassion means that there are paths to advancement that you never anticipated, mainly becoming Becca’s lady-in-waiting. The two of you had been raised together, joint at the hip, to the point where you may not even distinguish which of you is the real princess. The king and queen had welcomed you as if you were one of their own. 

Of course, you know that it’s far from the truth. Despite their accommodations and generosity, you’ve always known your place in society. There is a reason why Becca is the one covered in silver and gold, while you’re handstitching the holes in your clothes. She’s seated at a table for twelve with a wide array of dishes and pastries all created to her liking, while you join your fellow staff members for a family meal, cramped together in a table meant for half of you. 

You’ve always drawn that line, regardless of how many times Becca tries to cross it.

“Come now, you must come with me to Viscountess Romanoff’s ball!” She huffs, stomping her feet as she always does when she does not get what she wants.

You let out a sigh and Becca’s face falls as she prepares herself for your disappointing response. “Princess—” she glares and you bite your tongue, “Becca, that is not my place.”

“Of course, it is! Many ladies-in-waiting go to these balls.”

“Ladies-in-waiting that were born into nobility,” you correct her with a look. 

“It doesn’t matter. You’re my lady-in-waiting and I need you there to— to— fix my dress!”

You know it isn’t true — well, it is only true to the extent that Becca may become ridiculously inebriated and has to be stowed away before she can go as far as risk the royal family’s reputation, and you somehow have become the most reliable person for those circumstances. 

However, there are many there that will surely keep her on her toes — literally, including her brother. 

“Did you hear that? She needs you to fix her dress. You simply have to attend now.”

The interruption brings both of your attention to the door where Bucky is leaning against the doorway, a smirk curled on his lips. His eyes skip past Becca and land on you and — heaven almighty. 

He drinks you in, you in your simple gown, yet his sapphire eyes warm all the same. They darken like the evening has arrived far too early and the moon is nowhere in sight. His smile dims slightly, if only for him to clamp down on the inappropriate sound that climbs up his throat. 

Bucky has never been good at subtlety. 

You drag your eyes away and back to the lady that you’re supposed to be waiting on. The lady who is currently huffing and puffing as she plops down on the sofa with a scowl. “Will you please convince her to come, Buck?”

He steps further into the room. The air is a little heavier, like his presence has sucked all the oxygen out of the space — but only for you. Your fingers twist quietly together in front of you as you force yourself to stand upright, force yourself to keep looking ahead when his arm brushes yours — an inappropriate proximity for a prince and a member of the staff. 

Discreetly, you take one step to the side, just enough to put distance that allows you room to breathe, lest you risk Becca suspecting something transpiring between the two of you.

“You should come,” Bucky murmurs. His gaze is warm on your cheek. His blue eyes no doubt soft as they take you in. 

You resist and instead address Becca. “That would be unacceptable, Pr— Becca. Please. The crown prince will be in attendance and the viscountess’ staff are more than capable. I’ve met many of them and you will be in good hands.”

“Well, the crown prince would appreciate his ability to drink the viscountess’ liquor supply for the night without worrying about whether his dear sister can control her alcohol,” Bucky chimes in, which earns a roll of the eyes from Becca. 

“I can control my drinking, Bucky. Can you control your deviant desires in the presence of all the other women in the ton?”

Your heart skips a beat. A little nick in your chest to draw blood. You can practically hear the smile wipe off Bucky’s face, his face red as he grits his teeth. “You know that’s not true, sister dear. I’ve never once laid a hand on them.”

“Doesn’t mean you don’t try,” Becca shoots right back.

Another scratch, enough to peel back another layer to your bleeding heart. 

It shouldn’t — doesn’t — matter. There has never been anything between you and Bucky. He is the crown prince and you were born to be a lady’s maid at best; it was only the queen’s philanthropy and Becca’s friendship that you were granted this promotion. 

Bucky is meant to marry a princess from another kingdom, or at the least someone born to a proper, respectable family with titles. 

Neither of which is you.

“Rebecca Marie Barnes.” Bucky’s voice is sharp; it slices through the air and straight towards Becca whose face goes cold the moment it lands. 

Becca’s lips purse in annoyance. “I’m going to look for a dress for tonight.” Then she’s lifting her dress and stomping away.

You make a move to follow, only for Bucky to swiftly take your hand. You don’t turn. Bucky forces you to when he tugs you towards him, spinning you around so you land against his chest. You’re quick to flatten your palm on it to push yourself away, but instead, he catches your hand and presses it over his heart. 

“It’s not true,” he murmurs. “I’ve never once shown any of them any interest.”

Don’t cry. You’d be a fool to cry over a prince. You steel your gaze as you look up at him. “It would be in your right to do so. A crown prince is meant to take a wife.”

Irritation flickers across his eyes. “There’s only one woman I wish to take as a wife but she seems to deny me that right at every turn. What say you to that?”

“A crown prince is meant to take a proper wife. One fit for the ton.”

“I don’t give a damn about the ton.”

“Bucky!” The chiding comes out on instinct, his name sliding on your tongue like water. Habit — one that you should’ve curbed a long time ago if it weren’t for the two of them always insisting that you call them by their names. 

Bucky’s face thaws, mouth curving into a delighted smile. You try to extract yourself from his grasp again but fail to do so when he ducks his head, lips brushing the shell of your ear. A shiver snakes up your spine as he drags you closer to him. “I love when you say my name. I’d love it even more if you called me your husband.”

Your traitorous heart slams against your ribs. Foolish desires plague your very being. It’s been decades since you were first introduced to Bucky, ten years since you first defended Becca against Bucky’s teasing, and far too long since you first fell for the crown prince. 

It’s not as if your feelings are not reciprocated; Bucky has made it clear from the start that he adores you dearly. Adores you in a way that is far from acceptable for a prince. But your mother has reminded you time and time again that, no matter how intimately acquainted you are with them, you will never be one of them. 

And Bucky deserves a partner — an equal. Someone who can stand tall and proud beside him without the risk of gossip and mockery. You would only give him grief and he would certainly bore of you in the future once the thrill of the chase is done. 

So you exert more effort this time to push him away. “Prince Barnes, I must ask you to maintain some semblance of decorum. If you’ll excuse me, I have to tend to the princess.” You do a small curtsy, ignoring the flash of pain in his eyes as you walk away.

This is how it’s supposed to be. This has always been your fate.

“You have to try this on. Please? For me?”

It begins as an innocent enough request. Becca was in the midst of selecting her gown for the evening and that meant that you were right by her side, providing her with the necessary words of affirmation for her to make a decision. 

These are the most challenging questions that royalty have to deal with. Sometimes you dream of living such a comfortable life, pampered daily with the sweetest of treats and lavishing yourself with the praise of society. However, you know that things aren’t so simple. There are restrictions that come with being part of this family.

You saw firsthand how many classes Becca had to take as part of her education — in addition to the typical academic courses, she had to spend hours learning proper etiquette, how to sew, how to play a musical instrument, how to entertain and host a gathering. They had to prepare her for her future as a wife. While options are limited for women in society, they are practically a straight-line path for a princess who is not in line for the throne. 

Her career, her future, her partner — everything is almost pre-destined.

One day, Becca will marry someone. While she dreams of a happily ever after, she also understands the political nature of matrimony. To maintain power, you have to seek power. She may not be here a few years from now when she’s officially married off to extend her father’s reign. Her parents have insisted that they would never force her to marry, but Becca has always had a strong sense of responsibility.

You both admire and hold sympathy for her. 

Unfortunately, in this very moment, you would like to push her out of the carriage so you too could make your escape. Somehow, she has managed to rope you into going to the ball — in one of her dresses. 

“This is completely inappropriate,” you hiss. “I should not be here.”

“I want you here.”

“Becca,” you exhale deeply, “if your parents knew about this.”

“It’s a masquerade ball! Nobody will know.”

“I’m coming with you! I fear that makes it quite obvious.”

“I’ll tell them you’re one of our very distant cousins — one from a land far, far away.”

You pinch your nose as the carriage rattles, the silk of your glove glides along your skin. Pulling your hand away, you can’t help but look at the delicate fabric on your skin. 

When you first tried the clothes on, you could hardly believe your eyes. You didn’t even look like… you. Gone were your well-worn gowns. The tightness of the corset has you a little breathless, but the dress adorned with intricate sequins and embroidery sliding over your body like water. The silver shimmers underneath the moonlight that spills past the curtains of the carriage, white camellias sewn in a river down your shoulder to your waist. 

You reach up to tuck your hair behind your ear, only for your fingers to brush over the diamond necklace that Becca has so thoughtfully loaned you. The gems catch light, winking at you as if they’re letting you in on a secret. Then your fingers catch on your mask, a combination of beads and lace trimming, the same flowers framing the corners of your eyes. 

In all your life, you could never have even dared to dream of wearing such things. You never imagined that you would be swimming in such luxury. 

If your mother could see you now, she would absolutely murder you. She would bury you six feet under before the royal guards could even get to you. 

You know that neither the queen nor king would mind, but what would the rest of them think if they knew? What if they found out that you were no more than a girl born into somewhat fortunate circumstances? That your blood was redder than most of them. Common. 

A hand lands atop yours. Becca peeks at you with a nervous smile. “Hey, it’ll be fun. You’ve never been to one of these. Please try to enjoy yourself. I promise that nobody will say a thing.”

“What if I stand out? What if they know that I don’t fit in with the rest of them?” You whisper. 

Becca squeezes your hand. “If you stand out, it’s because you look far more beautiful than the rest of them. If you stand out, it’s because they are looking at you with envy. You could’ve easily been the diamond of the season.”

Warmth creeps up your neck as the carriage pulls to a stop. You can already hear the music filtering through the entrance; the sound mingles with the fast rhythm of your heartbeat in a symphony that echoes through your mind. 

“Showtime,” she beams.

Now, as someone who has been directly involved in the planning, decorating, and organizing of the extravaganzas, you’ve seen your fair share of ridiculously opulent displays. The palace is, after all, renowned for hosting the grandest of balls, bringing together only the who’s who of society. The guest list is selective, both for security and exclusivity reasons. It is the most sought-after invitation of the season. So when you walk into the viscountess’ home, you didn’t think you would be impressed.

However, you have never been happier to be proven wrong. Every inch of this place has been meticulously swathed in a color scheme perfect for the summer. Florals in every shade of the sunset draped across banisters, hanging over the staircase leading down to the dance floor, and standing tall in structures that do not look humanly possible.

Butlers and maids dressed head to toe in fine fabrics float around the room carrying hors d'oeuvres that look more like miniature works of art. Macarons that match the colors of the flower arrangements, tarts with crusts that crumble perfectly on your tongue, bonbons in perfect spheres dusted in cocoa, and fruits plucked from the vines at their ripest, sweetest point.

The stars twinkle above you to complement the tiny candles that string across the railings to illuminate the room, only outshone by the chandeliers with flickering flames hanging above you. Guests in their Sunday bests drift around the room in excited chatter, spreading the newest gossip that will surely make the papers by morning.

Heads turn as you and Becca enter the room and, before you can duck behind her, she’s linking her arm through yours and pulling you forward into the crowd.

“Becca—”

“Breathe, this will be fun. Enjoy the treats and the wine. The viscountess has exceptional taste, she has gathered the best chefs in the kingdom in her kitchen. Mother simply adores visiting her for tea for the food alone.”

Becca walks through the room with the confidence of someone who owns it. Everyone knows her as the princess even hidden behind the mask, murmurs of awe rippling across the crowd. The men pay particularly close attention, eager to get hers. The women speak of her in resentful admiration.

Becca — the belle of the ball. You, her companion.

“They’re looking at you,” she giggles quietly in your ear.

“No, they’re looking at you, Princess.”

“I’ve been in enough of these rooms to know when people are looking at me. While some are focused on me, most of them are keeping a close eye on you.”

“Likely to see when they would have the opportunity to speak to you alone no doubt,” you mutter under your breath.

Becca frowns at you. “Must you be so cynical? You look absolutely stunning. If you gave the room a chance, you’d know how many of them are keen on dancing with you. In fact, why don’t we put it to a test?”

Right as you’re about to ask her what she means, Becca moves away from you, pretending to be drawn by the dessert that appears to be running away from her. Her name leaves your mouth but you don’t get very far when three men approach you. All of them impeccably dressed, all of them handsome — at least, from what you can see with the mask.

“My lady, would you grant me the honor of joining me for a dance?”

Your lips part in surprise, eyes darting around the room to search for the princess. Becca stands off in a corner, grinning proudly to herself as she nibbles on a cream puff. You bite down the urge to curse before politely turning to the men. “My apologies, I should be getting back to my companion. I can’t leave her for far too long.”

You take a step and one of them moves directly in your path. “I’m sure she’ll find the company of others just as pleasant. Please, you must grant each of us a dance. It would be a privilege for us.” 

Although you’ve danced before, it’s mostly to help Becca with her training. You have no idea how these dances work during the balls — the coordination, the etiquette. Your heart begins to race as your throat closes in a panic.

“I can’t—”

“One. One song is all I ask.”

“Then mine next.”

“And then me.”

Your chest flares as you search around the room for Becca again but she is nowhere to be found. Your skin begins to burn as your survival instincts kick in. The last thing you need is for these men to notice and question how they’ve never seen you before at such events, and you would have to craft a convoluted fib that you would be forced to maintain.

Just as you are about to deny them again, a hand presses against the low of your back.

“My lady.”

The voice grounds you in a familiar presence. You look up to find Bucky — even through the mask, you’d know it was him. His favorite cologne clings to the threads of his jacket and his hair, thick and styled, is one you can practically feel on your fingertips. Those days spent by the riverbend, his head on your lap as you read him sonnets—

No. This is not the time to be sentimental.

“Your royal highness.” The men stumble over each other to greet him, their energy shifting to nervous jitters as they look amongst each other.

“I believe the point of the masks is anonymity,” he says smoothly. “Now, if you wouldn’t mind, I would like to invite this lovely lady to a dance.”

He doesn’t wait for your answer, he simply takes your hand and whisks you into the crowd. You don’t have time to think about the consequences of this, more relieved that you’ve escaped that sticky situation.

“Thank you,” you breathe out.

“I believe I should be thanking you for this dance,” he grins.

“How did you find me?”

“I could find you even if you were across the world, mon cher.” You roll your eyes and Bucky huffs a quiet laugh. “I don’t think you’re supposed to respond that way to the crown prince.”

“Perhaps if the crown prince didn’t use such predictably embarrassing lines.”

His lips curl again. “I noticed you the moment you walked into the room. Most beautiful woman tonight. Most beautiful woman I’ve ever known, in fact.”

“Haven’t you been taught that dishonesty is unbecoming on a man?” You snip back.

“You wound me,” he gives a little shake of his head, “Out of everyone, you know that you would be the last person I would attempt to bathe in false affirmations. I know you can see through those pretenses.”

“Then why try?”

“Oh ye of little faith. If you wanted praise from me, you could just say so—”

You balk, snapping back in surprise. “That was not my intention!”

Bucky squeezes your hand as he shifts you around the room. It is then that you realize he’s been guiding your movements all along, every one of your steps falling in line with the others around you. He’s always been a good dancer, far better than Becca who had resisted these lessons for the longest time.

“You look absolutely ravishing tonight,” he ducks his head to whisper in your ear. The smell of him infiltrates your senses, his warmth, the brush of his hair against your cheek. “Of course, you could’ve worn nothing at all and you would undoubtedly still be the most fetching person in this room.”

“If I wore nothing at all, then I’m sure I would fetch the eyes of everyone in this room,” you tease with a small quirk of your lips.

Bucky goes momentarily taut, stiff as he spins you and then pulls you in even closer. His hands tighten around you, like he’s fearful you would slip away at any moment. “Thank the heavens you opted for clothing today. I would rather not imagine anyone else seeing you in such a state. I’d have to dramatically increase this kingdom’s beheading rate. If I do that, what kingdom would I have left to rule?”

“Because you’d have to eliminate the witnesses to my humiliation of the royal family?”

“Because I have limited self-restraint when it comes to you.” You cock an eyebrow in question. “I would have to eliminate anyone who has ever seen you in such an intimate state. I’m a tad possessive you see, I’d rather be the only person alive who’s ever seen you in all of your raw beauty.”

Heat flushes along your skin, a sudden rise in temperature that rarely occurs at this time in the evening. “You’ve never seen me in such a state.”

“I would be the first and the last, my dear. I’ve never been very good at sharing.”

“I am not an object to own, your royal highness,” you bite out with a sour curl of your lips.

“You’re not,” Bucky murmurs softly, “but my heart belongs to you and I was hoping that yours to me — and your affection is the one thing I refuse to ration.”

You look up to meet his eyes. Earnest blue eyes that are far too honest for your liking. That gaze that’s dripping with the kind of affection he cannot counterfeit. Your movements nearly falter, your knees suddenly weak, but Bucky holds onto you even tighter.

“Bucky, I—”

Your gaze snags on the view behind him — a line of women watching the two of you, glowering green seeing your frame tucked against Bucky’s. Women who undoubtedly come from near and far in search of a notable husband to match or increase their standing in society. What better catch than a prince?

Instead of investing his time looking for a proper candidate for a wife, he is instead wasting these minutes with you. It’s been three songs, far from appropriate for two acquaintances, suspicious enough that you can hear the whispers of speculation begin to circulate the room. As the song comes to an end, you’re quick to curtsy in front of him.

“Thank you for the dance.”

You whirl around before he can say another word and disappear into the throng, leaving Bucky to be swarmed by women who are far better suited for him.

Becca stands by a corner, having watched all of this transpire. She’s barely paying any mind to the gentlemen suitors around her. When you come around to her, she’s immediately distancing herself and rushing towards you. Her gaze is eager, far too eager.

She’s had at least two drinks then.

“How was it? I saw you out there.”

“It was fine,” you mutter.

“You’ve only had one dance and it was with my brother. Methinks it’s time to expand your registry. How about the Duke? I hear he gets a little bit handsy and a little fun can do no harm.”

After your conversation with Bucky, you seriously doubt that. You would rather avoid this ball turning into a beheading festival tonight — or Bucky ruining his pristine reputation with society when he decides to do an execution in the middle of the dance floor.

Bucky is many things but he is not a liar. Whether he exaggerates is up for debate but that is not a theory you want to test tonight.

“Or shall we have a few more to drink in the meantime? Their champagne is quite lovely. I heard the viscountess had sourced all of the vintages from her favorite year.”

“Ladies.”

Speak of the devil. The two of you find yourselves in front of the viscountess. Even beneath the mask, her vibrant ruby hair is an easy identifier. She is cloaked in a glimmering black fabric with touches of red, breasts pushed up with the tight wrap aroung her waist. Spiders are stitched into her mask, crawling up the sides.

“Lady Romanoff,” Becca cheers, “what a lovely ball you’ve thrown. This is stunning, our chefs simply must learn from yours, otherwise I’d be tempted to sneak a few of those macarons up my sleeve before I leave.”

The viscountess laughs. “Princess, if you desire the macarons, I shall ensure that they are delivered to the palace by the morning. I believe your queen mother is also rather fond of the bonbons I source from France, I’ve already arranged for it to be sent tomorrow and I’ll make sure we include your macarons with that delivery.”

“You are most kind and gracious.”

Then she turns her eyes to you and you freeze. “And I do not believe we’ve met. Your name, dear?”

Your eyes flick to Becca momentarily before returning to her. You should lie. You should give her another name, but the viscountess has been known to be shrewdly intelligent. If you were caught in a fib, you would likely have your tongue cut out. There have been rumors of what she has done outside this kingdom, things that are far from proper; still, nobody has been brave enough to validate any of that gossip.

So you tell her your name.

“And I presume you are the princess’…” she trails off for a second and you go rigid once more, her gaze sharpens a fraction. “…cousin from far, far away?”

“Um, yes! She has decided to do an impromptu visit because she missed me so. I hope you don’t mind my bringing her, my lady.”

Lady Romanoff smiles like she knows — and you have a feeling she does. She simply doesn’t care. After all, she has always danced to her own tune, including how she’s wearing all black tonight that would be typically reserved for funerals.

“Not at all. I hope you enjoy your visit and my ball tonight. I would avoid Lord Smith, he’s in desperate search of a wife and may latch on to the one new face who appears unaware of the reputation of his temper.” Then she laughs.

“Fair advice, Lady Romanoff, thank you,” you murmur.

With one last squeeze of your arm, she brisks away from the two of you. As you follow her movements, you also spot Bucky as he makes his own escape with a few of the gentlemen you’ve seen come around the palace. He turns in time to catch your eye, his mouth curling into a smile as he winks at you from the distance, right as he disappears out the door.

“Now, shall we indulge in more treats?”

You’ve always been a quick study and there are three things that you now understand about the nature of these functions.

The first is to eat your fill — between the champagne and the specially mulled wines, intoxication is a friendly foe that rears its head far too fast. You have to learn to balance properly.

The second is that the marriage market appears dreary. None of the ladies are interested in the gentlemen, no matter how desperately they try. It appears that the women in the room aren’t too afraid of waiting a tad bit longer if it means they could find the one. This means that the gentlemen are far too preoccupied with harassing the help to keep themselves entertained, not that Lady Romanoff tolerates that behavior; she’s kicked out a number of them already.

Last but not least is that Becca is a social butterfly. While you’ve always been familiar with her friendly nature, seeing her out and about like this, crafting budding friendships with every single person in the room, you’re once again reminded of why the two of you were fast friends. Becca has always been more welcoming, conquering all five love languages on top of the three spoken and written ones that she’s already studying. However, following her around, you are also reminded that you are, in fact, not like her and these interactions are beginning to wear you down.

There are only so many ways you can talk about your dress before the discussions start to sound inane.

There are also so many times you can tolerate the way these women look you up and down. What happened to camaraderie? The catty looks are one thing you don’t expect. In your eyes, you’re a nobody who just happened to be playing dress-up thanks to a good friend. However, you can see how you seem from their perspective — close enough to the princess to attend this ball, apparently attractive enough for the crown prince to steal you for more than a handful of minutes.

You swallow the urge to scream, “I’m nothing more than the help!”

“The prince does have peculiar taste, doesn’t he?” One of them comments and you have to resist rolling your eyes, lest you offend her publicly. 

“What do you mean?” Becca asks as she nibbles on her third tart of the night.

Expectedly, the girl’s eyes flick to you for a brief second before her lips stretch into smirk. “I assumed he would take a wife by now. Have an heir to continue the lineage. However, it doesn’t seem that anyone in this room suits his preferences. He hasn’t asked anyone to dance yet — and not for a lack of trying from our part.”

“He did have one dance—”

You clear your throat to interrupt Becca. She looks at you quizzically.

God bless her heart. Becca means well but sometimes she misses some of these cues; she’s too trusting, which is why you have to be the exact opposite.

“Apologies, I meant a dance that would count—” she smiles saccharine sweet. “—that would matter. You’re a visiting relative, right?” This question she directs towards you.

All eyes turn to you. The attention has your cheeks burning. “Correct.”

“She’s actually a very dear friend, but she’s practically family. She knows Bucky very well.”

“Is that so?” You don’t appreciate the way the woman’s gaze flashes with something akin to amusement. “Practically a sister then. I don’t believe I recall where you’re from. I haven’t heard anyone speak of you either.”

“I didn’t say.” Your lips twist up in an irritated smile.

Awkward tension falls upon the conversation. Becca looks nervously between the two of you; this cue is far too hard to miss. “That doesn’t matter! What matters is that we are here now. How about we get some lemonade? It’s quite warm here, isn’t it?”

As Becca busies herself with resolving the tension, which is the last thing a princess should be doing, you take this opportunity to slip away from the suffocating atmosphere of the room.

Perhaps the garden can be healing this time of night.

Bucky would rather be anywhere else but here. Let him correct himself — there is exactly one place he would rather be than here and it would be to be back inside. With you. Dancing. Fetching you drinks. Keeping those overly-excited, unworthy vultures away from you.

The moment you stepped through those doors, he knew he was in for a long night of suffering. Time and time again, you’ve rejected his advances. He knows you feel the same way, has felt you leaning into his touch before you would pull yourself away. Your stubbornness has always been endearing, but Bucky yearns for the day when he finally breaks through those walls.

It’s not an if, it’s a when.

Because Bucky has always achieved everything he’s dreamed of and you are his most important one.

However, for now, he is instead subjected to the debauchery of his peers. Dukes, viscounts, and fellow noblemen who have far too much time on their hands to be exploring substances that shouldn’t be explored. Sam is in the midst of lecturing their tight-knit group about this vial he procured while out in the countryside, some fermented liquid that supposedly produces the most vivid, imaginative visions that have you questioning reality.

The others ooh and aah in fascination but Bucky’s eyes continue to stray towards those double-doors where you stand on the other side.

“Your royal highness, I have something that may be of interest to you.”

To that, he does turn with a raised brow.

“I specifically obtained this one for you. I am sympathetic to your cause—” Sam teases and Bucky responds with a withering glare that does nothing to deter his friend. “—and when the time comes and you hope to last, this will be immensely beneficial.”

“His cause is hopeless if he doesn’t do anything about it,” Steve laughs.

“I appreciate your vote of confidence, Rogers. Believe me, it’s not for a lack of trying,” Bucky mutters as he leans back against the stone pillar.

Sam grabs his hand, slips it into his palm and closes his hand around a small tin. “Very potent. I wouldn’t recommend more than a pinchful at a time. A pinchful should last you through an hour, but what a delicious hour it will be.”

He doesn’t know how to tell him that Bucky doesn’t need this sort of chemistry to make him last. Every time he’s near you, his pants tighten like a schoolboy again. Thirteen and realizing that this desire to kiss you isn’t a result of friendship. As he got older, he realized that these urges aren’t those that should be held against his sister’s lady-in-waiting.

Urges that blossomed into far more when he feels his chest constrict, breath stolen from his lungs, whenever he catches a whiff of that perfume. Or how he can’t resist peeking at you from around the corner whenever you sneak into the library, wondering what book has absorbed you this time, how quickly he could read it to spark conversation with you. Or how desperately he tries to make you laugh just to hear that tinkling melody that loops like the nation’s best symphony in his mind.

There are days that Bucky wishes he wasn’t born into this family, that he could be normal, so he wouldn’t be forced upon societal standards that he has no desire to follow. He could pursue you and you wouldn’t constantly put this chasm between you.

But then if he hadn’t been born into this life, then he would’ve never met you. He would have never known what it means for love to consume his very soul, how one person could mean the world to him, to a point where he would give it all up — the riches, the rule — to be with you.

Fate is a funny thing.

“I don’t need this, Wilson,” Bucky grunts as he tries to push it back into Sam’s hands.

Sam raises them. “No, sir. Think of it as an early coronation gift. Perhaps once you can change the rules of the kingdom, you would be inclined to follow them too.”

“Think he’s a jester,” he mutters to Steve with a roll of his eyes.

“In another life, my prince, perhaps in another life,” Sam grins cheekily. “You simply have to breathe it in. Like the usual stuff. Again, very powerful so be careful. Otherwise, you’d be trapped in that state for hours on end and your only relief would be to…”

Bucky’s eyes rise to meet his. Sam only wiggles his eyebrows in response. He makes a face of repulsion. “That’s how you rid yourself of the effects?”

“The more you finish, the lighter the effects will be. However, if you don’t find any form of… relief, then it could last for hours and you’d be hurting everywhere — and I do mean everywhere. It’s the strongest form of desire that can be relieved if you fulfill it.”

Bucky looks down at the tin again. Unassuming. Small. How powerful could this little thing be? He tucks it inside his coat, if only to appease his friend, and lets them resume with the conversation.

By the time they adjourn, Bucky is sufficiently exhausted. All he wants is to go search for you. It’s only been an hour and he already misses you. What a fool he is — if only the kingdom knew that the crown prince’s only weakness is a woman who doesn’t even want him.

As the other men filter back indoors, Bucky moves to follow. That is, until your perfume tickles his senses. You’re outside. He whips around to try and find you but you’re nowhere in sight.

Perhaps this is his chance. The two of you would be in Lady Romanoff’s prized garden, far away from the prying eyes of the palace or the rest of the ton. He looks at Steve and Sam, waves them away. “Go on. I’ll enjoy the fresh air a little bit more.”

“Alright, don’t look too thrilled that all those women inside are waiting for their prince to return.”

Bucky winces. Of course, he’s felt their hungry gazes all night. All of them practically vibrating where they’re standing, fanning themselves a little faster, batting their eyelashes a little more rapidly. He has zero inclination to humor any of them because the one person he wants to dance with is the one who won’t even look at him.

With one final gesture, he begins to prowl further into the grounds, further away from the mansion, to find you.

Little does he know that the tiny tin rattles like a cry against his chest, lid loose as he walks at a pace that’s far from careful.

After exploring the gardens for a bit, you almost wish that Lady Romanoff would adopt you under her wing to understand her excellent taste in design and decoration. The architecture is as old as time. Each brick feels intentionally placed like it’s meant to be part of history. The stream that sits quietly further away from the palace brings a touch of natural life to the otherwise manmade masterpiece.

A boat sits swaying in the gentle evening breeze and you’re half tempted to paddle yourself out to the middle to find some form of peace. However, given how deep it is into nightfall, you assume you’d have to eventually make your way back to find Becca. She’s promised not to touch another drop of champagne for the evening so you trust her to make good decisions.

Just as you turn to begin your journey back to the mansion, the last person you expect is standing before you.

“Bucky, what are you doing here?”

In the darkness, he stumbles towards you, mumbling incoherently. You strain your ears to decipher him but it’s near impossible when his words blur together. He’s clearly intoxicated. You wonder how much liquor Steve and Sam have fed him and lord knows what else.

When he finally stands where the moonlight shines across the concrete, you see the flush that sprawls like an illness across his skin. His breathing is labored and his fingers continue to tug at the collar of his shirt, clawing almost desperately. With his mask long gone, you can see how his pupils are blown wide as they drink in the sight of you, a mix of relief and desire in the constantly shifting shades of his ocean eyes. 

He breathes out your name like a prayer when he sees you. “Gods, you look…” he trails off again as he moves towards you, walking side to side as if his legs can’t bear the weight of him.

You catch him before he can topple over, his entire body draped over yours. You thank the heavens that you’ve done enough manual labor in your life that you’re able to prop him up, pushing him up against the wall. Your hands on his shoulders as you frown at him.

He doesn’t smell too heavily of liquor but there are strange particles on his coat that you suspect are the reason why he’s behaving like this. You bite back the urge to scold the crown prince of all people to be more responsible. When you look up at him, he’s looking down at you with a lazy smirk.

“Bucky, what did you take?”

“Y’smell…” he leans forward again, nearly tipping over but his nose ends up buried in your neck. You feel him inhale, deep, before a long, extremely indecorous moan rumbles against your skin. Heat slithers up your spine, pushing your blood south between your legs. “Fuck, you smell so good.”

Biting your tongue, you try to push him back against the wall but he’s faster. His arms wrap around you, holding you tight against his chest as his mouth trails warm against your skin. He whispers your name again — like a promise. “Bucky, please, I can’t help you like this.”

“Need—” he chokes then, whimpering.

“What do you need? Tell me.”

“You.”

You stroke his hair gently as he continues to mumble words you cannot hear against the pulse in your neck. “I know, I’m here. Tell me what you need.” Worry torments your heart as you press the back of your hand against his forehead. “Heavens, you’re burning up.”

“So hot,” he whines, “so, so warm.”

Without removing himself from you, he begins to shed off his tailcoat first, casting it aside. Then his fingers reach for the buttons of his waistcoat, fingers seemingly too uncoordinated to undo them.

“Please. Help,” he pleads.

How can you say no when he asks so sweetly? But at the same time, you really shouldn’t be doing this. “Bucky, this isn’t a good idea. I don’t think you should—”

“Help me.”

Gods, you’ve never been good at saying no to this man, not when he sounds like he’s in pain. Your gloved hands reach towards him as you begin to unbutton him slowly, revealing more and more of the linen underneath. Then Bucky pushes it off his shoulders.

“My shirt next.”

“Bucky!” you gasp, “That’s completely out of the question. I couldn’t possibly.”

“It’s so warm, mon couer. Please.”

He’s never played a fair game, but particularly when he addresses you so charmingly in French. You remember when he first started calling you those terms, practicing the foreign language on his tongue in a way that had you leaning in to listen for more. You asked him what they meant, and he said, “Only the truth.”

My love. My heart. Your heart feels like it’s been lit on fire when you read the translations.

You never questioned it further. Becca always took it as teasing, like Bucky’s being his usual charismatic, mischievous self. But every time he calls you that, you know that it is the truth. A truth you keep contesting for the sanctity of your mind.

Because if you accept that you are his love and that you are his heart, you don’t know how much of your resolve would be left.

And Bucky deserves more than that. He deserves the world, which he already has. You can’t be the reason that he loses all of it.

“We should head back. Becca’s going to be wondering where we are.”

“Becca can be patient,” he murmurs as he finally finds the strength to rip his shirt open, the buttons flying off as the fabric is torn off his body, leaving him bare in front of you. His abdomen ripples with the kind of muscles that come from the hours spent training, the hours you spent watching him practice. 

Saliva pools on your tongue and you feel like a dog taught to drool at the sight of its master. You’ve seen him shirtless before, of course — god knows the man loves to be fully exposed to the sun in seasons like this. However, something about him is different this time. He’s practically soaked through his shirt, his body glows with a sheen layer of sweat. 

“You have a fever, Bucky. You need help.”

“Need you,” he repeats, clearer this time. His brows then meet in the middle as he looks down at you. He tugs the mask off your face, letting it drop to the floor as he searches your eyes. Deep blue, bluer than the summer sky. “There you are,” he says softly.

Your heart stutters as you shy away from his gaze, his fingers catching your chin to tilt you to face him again. His eyes fall to your lips, your lips separate, sticky with whatever Becca had swiped onto you earlier.

Then he slants his lips over yours and you feel the fireworks explode inside your chest. Bucky’s moan spills down your throat as he kisses you deeper, harder. Ravenous is the only way you can describe it. He’s chasing after your lips like you’re the last drop of water for a parched man. He breathes the air from your lungs, an intimate exchange that has noises you’ve only made in the quiet of your room — alone — rising from your stomach.

It’s everything you’ve ever imagined, and so much more. You spent nights picturing what this could feel like in painstaking detail, hoping that it may happen one day — in the slightest of chances.

But then that anxiety seeps back in, creeping under your skin enough to wake you from this dream. 

“Bucky—” He kisses you again, quashing whatever rational thought you’ve only just begun to formulate.

“Tastes so sweet, even better than I thought,” he murmurs. “So sweet, my love. Gods, I could kiss you for days and I’d never tire of it.”

“We shouldn’t—” Your protest once again dies in your throat as Bucky begins to kiss along your jaw, placing a wet trail of fire as he mouths down your neck, counting your racing heartbeat. Your palms flatten against his chest, damp and humid. He’s sweating bullets but you don’t get the chance to interrupt again.

“I need you,” he groans, “lord, I need you.” His fingers catch your hand and press it against his chest. Your heart pushes against your ribs. “You smell so good. I can’t stop thinking about you. Thinking about what it would be like to kneel at your feet, your leg over my shoulder, and bury my face in that pretty pussy of yours.”

A gasp wrenches from your throat as you jerk back. “Bucky, that is— oh my god, that is unacceptable!”

“It’s the truth,” he growls, “I can practically smell you between your legs, your sweetness on my tongue. I want you to press your hips against my face and let me feast like a king. Slip my fingers in there and feel how you resist me, how you act like you don’t want this but you’re dripping all over my fingers.” 

The moan that climbs out your chest is involuntary and it’s all Bucky needs before he’s flipping you around and he’s pressing your back against the pillar. A gust of wind blows, providing some semblance of reprieve to the sudden sweltering heat that blankets you. It does nothing to soothe Bucky who looks at you like you’re the perfect prey, skin exposed to him with your hair twisted up like the forbidden fruit. 

Bucky isn't a godless man, but in that moment he swears there isn't a higher power who could stop him from having you.

He silently asks the heavens to turn their gaze away from the sin he's about to commit. Because whatever happens next, he won't be seeking forgiveness.

He will only offer his thanks.

He kisses you again, tongue slipping past your lips just as he swallows your surprised sound. His tongue strokes against yours, licking up and pressing against it until you’re trembling against him. 

You no longer have authority over your body, how every ounce of energy dissolves into thin air against him, knees nearly sending you crumbling to the ground if it weren’t for his own strength holding you up. One of his hands is ont he back of your neck, keeping you close, and the other on your hip. His mouth continues to move against you as if he’s savoring every inch of you.

Distracted by the taste of him and his seemingly contagious fever, you barely realize when Bucky peels back layer upon layer of your eveningwear. The weight of the fabric pools around your feet with a soft thump. His fingers are frantic as he pushes each piece off your shoulders, leaving you only in your shift and your stay. The corset is tight around your body and Bucky snarls to himself when he can’t seem to untangle the loops. 

Then you hear it, the sound similar to clicking tongues as Bucky tears it off your body. When the haze clears just enough for you to realize what’s been done, you shove him away from you, but your power doesn’t throw him very far.

“Bucky, this is indecent. I can’t be—”

“We’re too far past decency, my love.” He stalks back towards you, capturing your lips in a languid kiss that eviscerates your objections into ash. “Beautiful. You had the eyes of everyone in that room tonight. I loathed seeing you surrounded by all those men earlier. Undeserving creatures who think that they have an opportunity with you.”

“I—I wasn’t interested in any of them,” you whine as he works his way down your neck, teeth and lips marking slow, deliberate claims against your skin. Ones that spell out mine.

“I know,” he murmurs against your pulse, smiling as if the answer was never in doubt. “You don’t need to fret. You’re mine. I wouldn’t let them near you. I wouldn’t even allow you to look their way.”

His mouth drags lightly over your skin again. Unhurried, certain.

“Only me. Always me.”

It’s not a question, nor an order. He’s stating a fact. For as long as you can remember, regardless of how many handsome bachelors walk through the palace doors — or even through the staff entrance, you haven’t spared any of them a second glance. Your heart and eyes have always belonged to him. 

Bucky takes your hand and gently removes your gloves. He brings your hand up to his lips, placing one gentle kiss after another. First on your wrist, then up your forearm, to your bicep, until he’s on your shoulder. He moves this final layer to the side just enough for him to press wet kisses on your collarbones.  

However, despite his attempts to divert your attention away from the actual matter at hand, you can’t help but worry. His temperature is a far cry from normal, you fear what would happen if he weren’t observed and provided the necessary remedies. 

“You’re sick, Bucky. Please let me take you back to the palace. Let me fetch your carriage so we can at least summon the royal physician to assess you.”

“No, won’t help,” he grunts, “need to— need to—” and the next word that slips from his lips has your heart slamming against your ribcage— “fuck.”

Your mouth dries and your own desires begin to overwhelm you. This isn’t right. He’s not himself. He’s not in his right mind. What he needs is a doctor and a bed and—

“Sam said,” he exhales harshly, “I need to get it out. To stop this.”

“Get what out?”

“Need to finish.”

Finish. Fuck. Your throat suddenly feels like sandpaper. 

He needs to climax. 

“Don’t think I’ll be satisfied with finishing once,” he huffs honestly as his hands reach up to cup your breasts. He lets out a little pleased noise as he feels up your soft flesh, the shape of your breasts molding to his hand as he massages them. With only one barrier left between the two of you, it feels as if there’s nothing at all there. “My gorgeous girl with her gorgeous tits. I always knew you’d fit so perfectly in my hands. You don’t know how many times I’ve dreamt of this, putting my hands on them, pinching these lovely pert nipples—” he moans as he tugs on your nipple, electricity coursing through you in a zing straight down to your core. “How it would feel to have my cock tucked in between your tits.” 

You don’t have the voice to argue, nor the mind. All you can think about is how delicious it feels for Bucky to be touching you. Your head leans back as your eyes slide shut, your mind lost in the sensations of his touch. 

“Please, let me have you, my love. I need— I need you.”

His hand doesn’t wait for an answer, they begin to bunch up your skirt, pinning them against your hip with his wrist as his fingers trail up your inner thigh. You fight against your shudder and he lifts his mouth back to your lips to kiss you, just as his fingertips make contact with your core.

You’re sticky down there already, a mess from the proximity and his scent and his feverish warmth. This is still Bucky — your Bucky — but he’s also different, like all of the chains that have held him back, that have granted him the patience all these years, have been shattered. This is the result of all the times you’ve rejected him again and again and again. All of the times that you have rejected these feelings within yourself.

Now the dam has been destroyed and all those times you’ve swallowed your pride and your wants, they’re finally being released and they completely drown you.

The moon reflects off the water, illuminating Bucky’s face in a shifting series of ethereal colors. Even with the glimmer, his eyes are dark. A fog clouding his judgment. His desire is unwavering. The more you touch him, the more you let him touch you, the stronger the effects of his fever. 

If possible, he grows even warmer. His skin practically searing against yours but nothing burns more than his fingers between your legs, the delicate stroke of your lips, moist with the evidence of your lust. 

“You’re drenched down here, my sweet girl,” Bucky moans, “is this all for me? Were you thinking of me the same way I was thinking of you?”

“Bucky, please,” you jolt, hips rising when he dips a tentative finger inside you. 

It’s almost embarrassing how easily he slips himself in there, aided by the slick between your legs. He pushes a finger in as he gulps down your pleasured sound, a desperate little cry as his fingers stretch out your insides. 

You’ve never had anyone else touch you like this. You’ve barely even touched yourself like this; even when left to your own devices with nothing more than your imagination and the lingering scent of Bucky’s cologne on your threads, shame still restricts how much pleasure you allow yourself.

However, out there, with Bucky in control, you relinquish that power to him. You let him determine how much pleasure you experience, how much gratification you can get under his ministrations.

Bucky’s fingers are skilled as they work you open, scissoring you open until your teeth sink into his shoulder. “My pretty girl, look at you. I want to hear you cry for me, want to know how good I make you feel.”

Obediently, your lips split open in a wail that shakes the air. 

“Let me have a taste of you,” he murmurs and draws his hand away from you. The loss is almost instantaneous, a sudden chill where his touch had been, but it’s replaced by the fire that burns bright in your gut the moment he drags his wet fingers along his lips. He breathes it in like he’s memorizing the scent of you before he slides his fingers over his tongue. “God, you’re perfect. Sweet, as I expected.”

Then Bucky sinks to the ground and there’s something about the crown prince on his knees before you that has you faltering. Someone whose blood is bluer than the ocean shouldn’t risk scraping his knees for a mere maid — and yet here he is. 

“Hold your skirt up for me, sweet girl.” 

You want to protest. You want to say no. You want to remind him again that this isn’t a good idea but there’s determination in his eyes that have you whimpering, fingers reaching for the hem of your skirt to reveal yourself to him. 

Bucky drags a finger along your slit again, collecting the moisture and wiping it on his tongue with another moan. He leans forward and your eyes slide shut, heart thrumming in anticipation with the steady pulse in your veins. He kisses you slowly at first, making his way up your thigh but his patience is thin and soon enough he’s burying his face between your legs.

His tongue strokes up your pussy, legs still clamped shut in your apprehension. Bucky looks a little irritated when he can’t seem to properly taste you so, with one hand, he holds one of your legs up by the thigh and opens up your leaking cunt to him. He curses under his breath when he sees you glisten in the flickering night. 

The stars in the sky blend in with the ones behind your eyes when he finally lays his lips on you. He mouths at you hungrily, like he’s wolfing down his last meal. His tongue presses eager strokes along your walls that have your legs closing in around him again — only for his hand to pry them open once more to grant him access to the nectar between your thighs. 

“So sweet, so soft,” Bucky groans against your pussy. His lips suckle eagerly, the lewd slurps ricocheting off the surfaces in this quiet night. In the distance, the music continues quietly, but here — you’re accompanied by the sound of your quickening heartbeat and Bucky’s delighted grunts.

Each time he licks you, he buries himself deeper and deeper, until his nose bumps against your clit and his face glistens with your arousal. Your fingers tangle in his thick hair, damp with the sweat from his fever. When you tug on it slightly, Bucky sticks his face in even deeper, moans even louder. 

You can see how his erection only grows underneath his trousers, needy for attention, and yet satisfied all the same by your own pleasure. He tilts his face to reach new angles, his fingers pushing inside of you to keep you full while his tongue flicks that sensitive bundle of nerves.

It doesn’t take you long fall apart, walls closing in around his tongue and his fingers, spasming with your orgasm — the first of the evening.

For a moment, guilt enters your system and you’re forced to look down at Bucky remorsefully that he didn’t even achieve what he set out to do. However, you notice the shaking of his shoulders, a shudder wracking through him as his hips twitch upwards. A pulse down there. 

“Y-you finished?” 

Bucky nods, unabashed as he comes to a stand. “Do you see what you do to me? Cumming untouched in my trousers like a prepubescent boy who can’t even control himself.”

“I didn’t— I mean, you didn’t even touch it.”

“The mere thought of you finishing around my mouth like I’ve always dreamed is enough for me, my love.” He tucks a loose strand of your hair, one that have fallen loose from your updo, behind your ear. “However, I’m far from done. This fever — I can’t break it without you. I have to have you.”

Again, he doesn’t wait for your permission as he steals the air from your lungs with a passionate kiss. This time, you can taste the sweetness of champagne on his tongue along with something a little more unique. Something that belongs solely to you and now also belongs to him. 

“I’ve been leaking for you all night, sweet girl,” Bucky mumbles, “I couldn’t stop thinking what you look like underneath this dress. How soft and supple your body would be. Apparently, everyone else had the same thought. I could see how they looked at you. I should have them all stripped of their titles and banished from the land.”

“Bucky,” you chide, warmth flaming your cheeks. “That would be incredibly rude. Nobody did anything.”

He rolls his eyes as he presses you back against the pillar, reaching down to his pants. You hear the fabric shifting as he holds you up and frees himself. You’ve never seen one in real life before, only those diagrams that Becca likes to tease you with. 

And the real thing looks far more intimidating.

It stands upright, a thick vein running along the top as the head strains red. It looks almost as if that line pulses, encouraged by the purplish lines that sit underneath the surface. A new pearl sits at the tip of him, pearlescent as it rolls down the length of his cock, already sticky and stained creamy white from the mess in his trousers. It’s fat and it’s long and you can’t imagine that fitting inside you. 

You must’ve voiced your fears aloud because Bucky is then saying, “Don’t worry, mon couer. We’ll make it fit.” 

He lifts you up, drawing a squeal from your lips, as he wraps your legs around his waist. The head rests against your entrance, the sight of it already has your pussy drooling over the tip, like it’s preparing for his cock. 

“She’s excited to have me,” he muses quietly, “she’s dripping. So eager to have me. You haven’t been filled before, have you? You’ve never had another man touch you?”

You must’ve taken a moment too long to respond, too preoccupied with the incredulity of the situation.

The low roar sounding from Bucky’s chest has you looking at him. Fury claws at his eyes, the usual bright blue shifting darker as he sneers. His hands tighten around your hips. “Has anyone else touched you? Who is it? Is it the stableboy? I’ve seen the way he looks at you. I’ve been meaning to replace him—”

“Bucky, god, no. Nobody!” You pant, “Where would I find the time?”

“You wouldn’t lie to me, would you? I know your good heart would want to protect them.”

Your lips curl. “No, I would have no reason to lie to you. 

“Good, because I fear the dire action I would’ve had to take if you told me otherwise.” 

“I’m not yours to own, Bucky,” you snap.

“That’s where you’re wrong, sweet girl. You’ve always belonged to me, whether you knew it or not. You’re mine and I’ll kill anyone who even dares to think about you.” Another surprised sound escapes your lips and Bucky only smirks. “This pussy especially. I’ll shape it to the size of me, you won’t ever know pleasure with anyone else. I’ll train her to only please me and only me.” 

Before you can admonish him for acting so barbaric, Bucky notches the tip into you. You can already feel the stretch, your pussy resisting the entry of something so… large. So imposing. But he pays it no mind; instead, he uses your own juices to lubricate his entry as he pushes slowly into you, inch by inch. 

He drives deep inside of you, swift and merciless the first time, to yank a gasp from your throat. Another expletive leaves his lips as his head rolls back, eyes slamming closed as he relishes in the feel of your cunt wrapping around him. 

Your entire body is under a spell, experiencing something otherworldly that no language you know could describe. It burns like you’ve been placed on a stake to be set ablaze, like every atom in your body is being torn apart and rearranged. It’s divine deliverance in the pain, but one that provides you with the kind of relief you don’t expect. 

“You feel so—” he chokes as he drags himself out before pushing back in, faster this time, the slide easier. The ache still screams between your legs but you let them fall apart anyway, allowing Bucky to take control over the situation. 

His name falls from your lips — this time as a plea, but you can’t tell if you’re begging for him to stop or to go faster. You want to get past the hurt, want to feel the sort of pleasure that you’ve only heard whispers about. But at the same time, a small piece of you relishes in that pain — it reminds you that you’re human, that this is new, that this is real, and that Bucky is right here with you.

“So tight, so fucking wet. You’re completely soaking my cock, sweet girl. I always knew you were meant for me, this pussy was made for me. No one else can ever see you like this, do you understand me?”

Bucky jerks his hips forward, his arms under your knees, hands on your ass as he presses you against the wall. The surface is solid against your spine, holding you upright as he fucks up into you. His grunts are muffled into your neck as he breathes you in, like your scent fuels the fire in his veins. 

When you don’t respond, too drunk off the sensations of Bucky driving into you at a pace that has you delirious, he punctuates one thrust particularly hard.

“I asked, do you understand me?”

A sob crawls out of your throat as you nod, tears leaking down your eyes. He doesn’t apologize for your cries, he knows you better than that. These tears are from the overwhelming waves of emotion, the heightened tension that grips your lungs until you can’t seem to find the capability to breathe. 

“You feel like heaven, my love. I’ll fuck you to the shape of my cock, until you can’t take anyone else but me — until you won’t even consider taking anyone else. I’ll ensure everyone in this kingdom knows that I’ve defiled you, that you’ve taken my mark on your skin and inside of you. I’ll ensure that you will only be mine.” 

The shame settles hard and fast in the pits of your stomach. If everyone could see you like this, pinned outside against a wall by the prince, fucked like a whore in heat with your pussy clamping down around him, you could never show your face again. A desecrated maid who couldn’t keep her legs shut for a prince. 

Anyone would be lucky to have him, but no one in their right mind would let even the crown prince take them before marriage. They would rather die than be labeled a slut. A harlot. You would be the bane of your family, no one would speak of you again and you would be banished to the outerlands. 

But this is Bucky and even the concept of him keeping you as his dirty little secret only sends thrills through your veins. 

“Bucky, you can’t—”

He laughs, dark and sinister. Like the idea of him unable, unallowed to do anything is absurd. “I’m the crown prince, sweet girl. I am the future of this kingdom. What I say goes. If I say you are mine then it is true. No one will come within a foot of you. Not after I’m done with you. I’ll make sure everyone sees the marks of my affection for you. I’ll imprint them in places everyone can see and other places that nobody will ever see.” 

His words have your heart clenching in mortification and a humiliating level of arousal. The debasement of your character, the degradation of your morality — apparently none of it means anything if it means you have Bucky between your legs and his cock buried deep inside your cunt. 

“I’ve laid my claim on you. No one else will ever touch you. You—” thrust “—are—” thrust “—mine.” 

Staying true to his promise, his fingers dig deep into your flesh. Deep enough that you’ll surely carry those bruises with you for some time. The litter of prints on your neck and above your breasts will have to be covered by your high necklines, gowns that would only raise suspicion in the summer. 

But most of all — the taking of your virginity, your purity plucked from your hands and placed into Bucky’s — is the kind of mark you will never undo. 

Bucky is too lost in his own pleasure, too focused on delivering you to your second peak of the night to recognize the telltale signs of your climax approaching. Your whines crescendoing, the stutter of your heartbeat as your fingers sink into his shoulders. His name spilling from your mouth in an uneven rhythm. 

“I will cum in you, sweet girl. I’ll fill you up with so much cum, I’ll have you dripping all the way home, I’ll make sure you’re leaking all over the carriage before I take you again in my chambers. Gods, I’ll tie you to my bed, make sure that you’ll never deny me again.”

Your heart smashes into your chest, threatening to catapult out with his warning. For some godforsaken reason, the idea of being Bucky’s plaything — tied up with no other purpose than to serve his pleasure — has you gasping in desire, your legs closing in around him as you feel your senseless craving crescendo. 

“You want that, don’t you? You just want to be my pussy. Keep your legs open, this pretty cunt dripping yours and my cum all over my sheets. My darling girl is nothing but a whore who wants cock to keep her plugged up at all times. You won’t have to worry about a thing ever again.”

“Bucky, please—”

“I’ll breed you until you carry my heir.”

That jars you awake and you’re scrambling, a conflicting concoction of pure, unadulterated want with the terrifying fear of the consequences to follow. “You can’t! Bucky, you have to stop. You can’t get me—” you hiccup, “—you can’t get me pregnant. Your heir has to come from a proper bloodline.”

“I no longer care about propriety and bloodlines. They have kept us apart long enough. I’m the crown prince and, what I want, I get. What I want is you and you alone. Why would I need some uptight, prissy noblewoman who doesn’t know how to cum around her husband’s cock?” 

“Bucky!” You gasp as he fucks you hard and fast. His pace is unrelenting and every slide of his cock inside you scrambles every single sensible thought in your mind. 

“And I have you — I can feel your pussy choking me. You — while you’re getting fucked outside with the risk of someone finding us. Yet, look at that, you’re squeezing me even tighter, my love. I always knew you were made for me. Every inch of my depravity, you take it even further. You complete me.”

Your stomach coils with something deep and tight, an unknown force set out to subject you to the strongest cut of humiliating pleasure. As a proper woman, you shouldn’t take such words, even from a prince. You shouldn’t stoop so low as to attain this form of high. 

However, your mind and your body and your heart do not align. While your rational mind screams at you to put a stop to this, your adoration for Bucky — now forced to surface after years of stomping on it and swallowing it with guilt — and your pure primal need — what many consider to be your purpose — join and meld to push you to keep going.

To chase after this sought-after pleasure that few can even dream about. If the cost of is to reduce your dignity and pride, then so be it.

“And now, I will complete you,” Bucky murmurs sweetly before he shoves himself inside you over and over again until you’re a weeping mess, your legs quaking as your body slides up against the wall with every thrust. Tears leak down your face, destroying Becca’s efforts to make you look beyond yourself. 

But all that physical destruction is worth it when your insides are being remade. 

With one final thrust, Bucky spills inside you. Warmth coating every part of your walls, thick, clinging onto your skin like it’s marking you with a permanent mess. Your second climax twists inside your gut, rising up to your chest to constrict your lungs as your pussy curls tight around him. His need to complete you is complemented by your own need for the same. Your walls keep him in, trapped, until every single drop is milked from his cock and buried deep inside your cunt. 

Bucky doesn’t let up, he fucks into you until he’s groaning sensitive against your neck. His breathing is even hotter than before, each exhale like a furnace in the middle of the desert. 

“I’m not done with you yet.”

Those words no longer spark fear, but zealous anticipation. 

Then Bucky takes you again — you on your feet, him behind you as he fucks you against the wall, your breasts in his hands to hold him steady as he cums into you again, the milky white seeping out from where you two are joined. But then he misses your face too much so he grabs your chin, turns you to face him, and devours you in a messy kiss that has your teeth clicking almost painfully. 

Then he has you laid out over his clothes, your back on the floor, your knees and thighs against your torso, as he fucks deep inside you, promising you that it’ll take this time. That he’ll try as many times as he needs to until his seed takes. 

Then you’re on your hands and knees as Bucky pounds into you from behind, his thighs slapping against yours, his fingers reaching around to your clit in intentional circles that have your body quivering underneath him, and he doesn’t stop until you’re cumming around his cock and he’s filling you up with another load. 

Then you’re cleaning him up, the taste of his cum and your pussy a more potent substance than all the liquor in the nation combined. The thick liquid spurts down your throat like you’re being fed your dessert, a treat for having done so well.

And again and again and again. 

For a while, you forget that Bucky is relentless only due to the poison in his veins, his depraved hunger only exacerbated by the delicious textures of your cunt around his cock. An addiction that he could never suppress. 

When both your limbs finally give and enough of the toxins have been excreted — inside you, mind you, the two of you slump down on top of both your clothes. A mess of damp fabrics and fluids that even the best solvents in the kingdom could never remove. 

Bucky turns over to you with a groan — the same sound that’s been rattling inside your mind, the same sound that will surely affix to every crevice inside your brain for weeks, if not months — and slumps an arm over your waist. 

He nuzzles his face against your cheek, a small chuckle tickling your face. He hums, pleasantly exhausted. You’re a disarray of tangled limbs and gummy skin. You can’t help but laugh too. 

“Why are you laughing?” He smiles, leaning down to press a kiss on your bare shoulder. Somewhere along the way, you’ve stripped yourself of your final layer too, leaving you completely nude. 

The circumstances are far from believable. If you had told yourself that this was how your night would end, even your wildest imagination couldn’t have conjured up this conclusion. “I can’t believe we’re doing this in the middle of Lady Romanoff’s ball.”

“She would skin us alive if she knew,” he smirks. 

“Yes, she would.”

The third, unexpected voice has the two of you jumping, your fingers immediately reach for more clothes to cover you up, at the same time Bucky also drapes his jacket over your body. 

Lady Romanoff stands closer towards the land, where the water doesn’t extend. She then approaches, oil lamp in hand. You can’t unriddle whether her expression is contemptuous disgust or unpredicted amusement. 

Meanwhile, the two of you are still clad in nearly nothing, only the moonlight to cast shadows that cloak you.

“Lady Romanoff, I apologize profusely. We didn’t mean any disrespect—”

Bucky’s quick to interject. “It was entirely my fault. I have been subjected to… urges that were outside my control. It was a substance, you see.”

His words have your heart palpitating in an uneven rhythm. The words land unexpected sharp, like a piercing wound straight through your beating organ. 

Urges that were outside my control. 

This was never meant to happen. You and Bucky. This night. All of it is a fever dream. A product of your desires catalyzed by a chemical compound. Bucky never would’ve done it otherwise; the two of you have always run in parallel lines, never meant to intersect. 

All of his words — sweet nothings. 

Just like this evening. 

“I’m fully aware of the substance you speak of, I am frankly surprised that you would be so careless as to consume it at such a public place, your royal highness,” Lady Romanoff muses.

Bucky winces, scratching the back of his ear awkwardly. “I stumbled and the container had been loose. Unfortunately, I was forced to consume nearly all of it — at least, what didn’t end up on my clothing.” 

Lady Romanoff only hums thoughtfully. “If I remember correctly, the aftermath to this substance would be a deep sleep. Rather fast, I’m afraid.” This time, she turns to look at you. “I shall set up a room for the two of you — you can enter through the back. Most of my regular staff is gone and I’ll arrange for my lady-in-waiting to prepare it. She is most discreet.” 

“We can—” Bucky stops then, seeming caught off guard by the sudden dizzying spell. He sways slightly, words slurring together in a jumbled mess before he falls against you. His breathing even. 

“It appears my memory serves me well,” she says, voice tinged with unexpected pride. “Come, my dear.” 

As promised, most of the party has dwindled down to a few inebriated guests that Lady Romanoff organizes to be delivered home in their respective carriages. You and Bucky have been set up in a wing far from the prying eyes, this is where they’ve restricted most of Lady Romanoff’s staff, only the trusted are allowed. 

Her lady-in-waiting and her most trusted butler had been sent to help carry Bucky back — of course, after you properly dress him. No explanation was provided beyond the crown prince getting “ill from the food”, but you assume that they suspect something else is at play, particularly when you yourself look like you’ve been mauled by a wild beast. 

After Bucky has been settled into his room and you’ve been provided your own as a guest, which you insisted against, but Lady Romanoff insisted against your insistence, her staff is sent away. Bucky snores quietly on the bed, he’s been in and out. He was somewhat awake long enough to help the butler walk him back into the mansion, enough to plop himself down on the mattress.

Your heart is uneasy with worry but Lady Romanoff touches your shoulder. “He should be fine. He has most of it out of his system, I presume?” She cocks an eyebrow. Heat crawls up your neck as you nod. “Then he will recover by morning. He may be weary for a while but he’s in good hands.”

“Thank you for your generosity, Lady Romanoff,” you murmur, “I do apologize for the inconvenience and my… impudence.”

“No apologies needed. I spoke to Wilson and he’s received an earful from me about bringing untested substances — in unsealed containers, at that.” She pauses then turns to you, “You’ve been quite the kind… relative, for a distant one.”

She knows. You know that she knows. She knows that you know that she knows. 

This is a mess. 

“Yes, I’m rather used to caring for him,” you clear your throat, and then realize what you’ve just said. “In a way where he’s almost like my brother. We grew up together.” And that one isn’t a lie per se.

“I’m sure,” she says with a twinkle in her eye. “Well, take my words with a grain of salt, but I would like to ask you to proceed with caution. You seem to be a smart woman, I’ve seen you with Becca, how you manage to fit right in with society. While I am a romantic at heart, I am also a realist — and the truth is that the challenge will lie with you. As the crown prince, he will be untouched. Unharmed. The realm will protect him before it will protect a woman.”

“I understand that,” you nearly sigh, glancing back at Bucky. 

It’s what you’ve always known — your position in society. It’s why you never accepted Bucky’s advances, nor your own feelings regarding him. It’s easier to pretend that it doesn’t exist, that you aren’t in love with the crown prince as a mere maid — even if it hurts. 

“But his royal highness is also a good man. I’m sure he will choose wisely,” Lady Romanoff smiles. “Now, please rest. I will arrange for separate carriages to deliver you both home in the morning.”

“I should return now—”

“What you should do is rest,” she presses with a pointed look. “Furthermore, I believe he could use some tending to tonight — in case he wakes or has… remaining urges.”

She’s teasing you, and it’s working because your face feels like it’s been trapped in a heatwave all day. “I’ll make sure he gets through the night and will depart first thing in the morning. I wouldn’t want to inconvenience you any further.”

“No inconvenience. This has perhaps been the most entertaining occurrence this season.” Her eyes are practically twinkling in delight. 

Your teeth sink into your bottom lip. “Lady Romanoff, please forgive me for overstepping, but if I could ask for your discretion regarding this matter—”

She waves you off with a reassuring smile. “You need not ask. I understand the position you are in and I would never trouble another woman more than necessary. I also would not enjoy making an enemy out of the palace and I doubt the crown prince would let things slide if anything were to happen to his precious lover.”

Your mouth opens to correct her, she gives you a look that tells you not to even attempt to lie to her. You technically wouldn’t be fibbing. 

After all, it was only his urges that allowed him to do such things to you tonight. At the end of the day, you’re still nothing more than a maid — a member of the royal staff. A lover is what you are not. 

“Have a good evening, dear.”

“You as well, Lady Romanoff.”

Once she leaves the room, you go to check on Bucky one last time before you move to your own room; it is an adjacent space, connected by a door should you need access to his room. That distance, while small, still feels much too large. 

You pull the blanket up higher on his waist, brush the wet strands away from his face as you check his temperature again. His fever has come down plenty, he’s at least broken through it and now he’s simply sweating out the rest. 

With that, you pull your hand away and ready yourself to move to your own room. 

Except, you don’t get the chance, not when you feel those familiar fingers wrap around your hand before you could move. You whirl around to find Bucky drowsily looking up at you. His eyes glow in the moonlight spilling through the massive windows. 

“Stay,” he murmurs.

“Your royal highness, I should return to the chambers Lady Romanoff has provided. If the staff were to return, I wouldn’t want to have to explain the circumstances.”

“How many times have I told you not to call me that?” He says, but there’s no bite to his words, only affection.

You swallow thickly, chancing another look at your door.

“Stay,” he insists again, “please.”

Who are you to deny the crown prince? Your frail heart can’t seem to do that, not when it could be your last evening with him. 

So, you slide under the covers when he makes room with a giddy little smile. He tucks you into his chest and kisses the top of your head. “Sleep, sweet girl.”

And for once, you listen to him. 

Come morning, the reality of the situation has carved itself deep into your bones. While you wake up in Bucky’s warmth, his arms around you and your legs on top of each other, you know that this is the last part of your dream. The epilogue. This will be nothing more than a memory, maybe even the figment of one. 

You swiftly clean yourself up, ensuring that you are properly clothed and presentable before you make your way to where Lady Romanoff had directed you. She is nowhere to be found but a carriage has been arranged to take you back to the palace. The sun hasn’t even risen when you slipped out of bed.

With one last look at Bucky who’s still sleeping peacefully, you take your leave.

You’re back early enough that none of the staff are awake yet, but you also can’t bring yourself to sleep. The gown Becca had lent you hangs by your door quietly, a stark reminder of the evening you thought you had crafted in your mind. You turn over to ignore it. 

However, slumber doesn’t find you and so you begin your duties early. The princess’ gown, the tea, everything a lady-in-waiting should do in the palace. 

It’s expected that Becca has questions about where you went last night. She was frantic with worry at the thought of losing you somewhere, or if something had happened to you that she refused to leave.

“Lady Romanoff informed me that you and Bucky had returned earlier because he was ill,” she says, forehead creasing with lines, “I apologize that your night was ruined by my brother. I was hoping you would enjoy the remainder of the ball.”

“I enjoyed it plenty already, don’t worry,” you smile. “Thank you for giving me that opportunity.”

“Well,” she eagerly presses, “were there any handsome bachelors that caught your eye?”

Only one and he is the one you certainly cannot have. 

“No, I believe we were out there to assess the men for your own relationship.”

Becca blushes, fanning her face. “No, no one of importance.” She’s never been a good liar. “Okay, there was one but Bucky would kill me if I tried. Have you ever noticed how attractive Lord Rogers is? He also has such a kind heart.”

If he had a kind heart, he would’ve stopped Bucky from taking that ridiculous substance, you think bitterly, unfairly. 

“I’m sure he is,” you only say. 

“How was your evening then? Did you really not see anyone to your liking?” 

You smile softly at her. “Princess, even if there were, it would not be my place.”

“That’s rather unprogressive of you! I’m sure there are suitors who would care little about such trivial things.”

Naive, hopeful Becca. This is why you love her. 

Before you can respond, Becca perks up and waves behind you. You turn and that’s when you see him — Bucky. He’s crossing the ground with long strides like a man possessed. He’s a man on a mission as he wastes no time at all in closing the distance.

He looks furious.

He also looks an outright mess — shirt unbuttoned, sleeves haphazardly folded, hair sticking up at odd angles. It looks as if he rolled right out of bed at the Romanoff house and came straight here. Here to this garden that you’re walking with Becca. 

You have a feeling that that’s exactly what he did.

“Brother, you’re looking much better—”

“You left,” he instead speaks directly to you.

You grit your teeth, doing your best to avoid Becca’s look of utter confusion. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean, your royal highness.”

“I thought we’ve established that we’re past that level of formality,” he snaps, “I’m not letting you escape this conversation. If you’ll excuse me, sister dear, I need to have a little chat with this one.” His hand covers yours, none of the gentleness from last night, instead he squeezes it tight like he’s afraid of you slipping away again. 

Becca doesn’t follow, she’s too busy gaping and slowly piecing things together. 

All the while Bucky is dragging you stumbling and tripping over your own feet towards a more secluded part of the gardens, away from the curious eyes. 

You’re trying to pry his fingers off you to make your escape. “Bucky, stop. Stop this.”

He does stop dead in his tracks but he immediately spins around to face you. “No, you stop,” he growls and the sound shoots straight for your chest. “After last night, after everything that’s happened, you simply – what — leave? I woke up and you were nowhere to be found. Lady Romanoff was the one who had to tell me that you departed earlier.”

“I had to return to my duties first,” you say brusquely, “I have responsibilities to tend to, your royal highness. It also would have been inappropriate and highly suspicious if we arrived at the same time.”

“Damn propriety,” he barks, eyes glowering, “I think you should cross that word off your vocabulary after last night.”

Said last night flashes before your eyes, like paintings that could force a priest to pray. You’re warm all over now, the ghost of his touch on your skin, his mouth mapping out every inch of you like he’s memorizing the dips and curves of your body. The feel of his cock, hot and wet, sliding inside you, spilling evidence that took you far too long to clean last night. 

Even now, you can almost still feel it dripping down your legs.

“You left,” Bucky presses.

“You weren’t yourself last night. Like you said, they were urges as a consequence of the substance you accidentally took. It was nothing more than a fulfillment of the circumstances.”

He scoffs, “I said that to Lady Romanoff, not to you. I did not want her to hold you responsible for the state we were in. To me, last night was— last night was everything.”

The lump in your throat only grows, tears prick your eyes. He can’t do this. Not now. You’ve made your decision to let that dream go. 

“It shouldn’t have happened,” you whisper.

“Shouldn’t have happened?” He echoes, aghast. “Is that regret I hear in your voice?”

“Bucky…”

“Because I don’t regret it. Not a single damn thing. I want you, I’ve always wanted you. I’ve made it very clear that I love you and there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you. If I had to give it all up, I would — if that meant that I could finally hold you.” 

“You can’t say such things!” You hiss, “You are the crown prince!”

“And sometimes I wish I wasn’t! Because it would make this easier, wouldn’t it? You wouldn’t have to restrain yourself every time you speak with me. You wouldn’t have to call me such ridiculous titles when all I want is for you to say my name. Because I know you love me, I know you do. You can’t look at me the way you do and expect me to believe that you don’t feel anything for me.”

Your heart splits down the middle, parts of it chipping away. “I— it doesn’t matter how I feel or what I want. You have a long line of noble ladies waiting for you to make your choice—”

“I’ve already made my choice and damn anyone else who gets in my way. I’ve already had a taste of you, my love. I’m never letting you slip through my fingers again. I’ll speak to my parents—”

“Don’t!” You interrupt. “Please don’t. It’s— it won’t be you who would suffer the consequences. If they know of what… we did, if they know that it goes far beyond the previous evening, it wouldn’t be you they punish. My mother and I…” Your sentence trails off as your voice cracks. 

Bucky cups your face, presses his forehead against yours. “I wouldn’t dare let a thing happen to you.”

“It’s not your choice.”

“It is. If they want me to be their heir, this is my choice. They have to make theirs.” 

“That’s ridiculous.”

“No, that’s love.”

You swallow thickly as he leans back only slightly, pained like he can’t even bear this amount of distance between the two of you. 

“I love you. I love you and that’s a fact truer than the sun that spills light onto this earth. I won’t let anything happen to you. I promise to care for you, to cherish you. I promise to be a man fit for you. I won’t be perfect because god knows nobody in this world could deserve you, but I’ll always try my damndest to make you happy.”

“Bucky,” you breathe out..

“Say yes. Say you’ll be mine. You’ve made me wait all this time. All these years wasted. Don’t let us forego anymore.”

Could you really do this? It would be a risk — not only to you, but to your mother, to the staff. They would be questioned if they’ve ever encouraged your entanglement with the prince. Becca — oh god, what would Becca even think? It would be an incredibly selfish decision. 

“Don’t do that,” Bucky murmurs as he tightens his fingers around your face, “don’t think about anyone else. Think about you and what you want.”

You want him. You do.

“You’re mine regardless, sweet girl. I’ll protect you no matter what you decide. My heart is yours.”

“Yes,” you whisper and the answer comes easier than you think, “yes. I’m yours.”

Bucky lets out a wet laugh, blue eyes glistening as he presses his lips against yours. “You’re mine. I’ll protect you, I swear it.”

“I’m scared.”

“I know,” he rasps, “I know. Thank you for trusting me. I promise to do right by you. No matter what happens, know that my entire life is yours. I’d burn the kingdom down before I let anyone lay a finger on you.”

“Becca might get to you first,” you choke out a laugh.

Bucky swipes the tears from your cheeks with the pads of this thumb. “Then maybe I will have to take your protection first.”

“Deal.”

+ sam: my google searches from this are so embarrassing but hey i tried. i havent written bucky in a hot second but this one took me by the throat so i hope you enjoyed it!!! i love hearing thoughts so please share them if you liked it <3

bucky is kissing (taglist): @superbassbuck @earthsmightiestbenders @houseofhyde @its-in-the-woods @flockoff-featherface @winterdecember18 @chateaubarnes @54nboo @phoenix-in-writing @tofuonfaiya @avengersfan25 @miraclediviner @averyhotchner @hailmary-yramliah @catclaw1 @heldbybarnes @blowingbarnes @stanmarvelous @pinksplace @lunexiax @54nboo @it-is-rebel-owl-ma-dudes @esunarint @captain-shannon-becker @lunaryoongie @sergeantsebastian @alli0-0 @amoremarveloustime @avgdestitute @natskisses @sarah1barnes @parker-barnes-af @sarah1barnes @onecojg @/iamthatonefangirl @stegosaurussims @angelryex @evelynstanmarvel @lokisgirlie @mathcat345 @flippedccc @lynnidc @winnichu173 @singulartoast @zhaixiaowen @c3liaaaaa @buckysdecaflove @epiphanyrogers @itsmadamehydra @cutttteeee @macbaetwo @blobfishlol @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @erina00 @idkbeautiful @goobers-mcgee @globetrotter28 @rach2602 @star-yawnznn @my-drvidess @deeninadream @fruitypebsworld @ella-rowen @smorgasbrods @ruptureedspleen @awkwardgiraffe726 @a-very-fictional-girl @misswhiddless @femmewithmommyissues2001 @onyx8514 @pandasslol @eiaf4uwn @wickedfun9 @nbhrhn @w1nchesterfiles @ae1szn @umm-ok-fine @its-pomegranite @67-angelofthelordme-67 @dontputyourfckingdrinkonmytable @wowitsafemale @fruitypebsworld

The mattress creaks and the frame knocks into the wall, chipping the paint, denting the wood where the two meet.

Forehead to forehead, sweat accumulating with torrid breaths and aching muscles, Bucky's hips caught to yours. Pressing, slamming, holding down as he clenches his glutes and humps, elongating the pleasure, taunting.

But the light chime of his tags kept ringing. They keep batting across your chest, cold and moist, patting your chin and dragging across your skin when you were right there.

It was just as your legs fell open, knees laying up as his dick dragged in and out, and he willed his noises to stay at a minimum, when the tags flittered to the dip of your neck. Your lips parted, sighing, rolling your eyes as it tap tap tap's and sings against your hot skin. You move, careful not to ruin the precision, pressing the chain against his peck, holding them firm to his chest.

At first, Bucky almost sat up, almost paused to ask if you were okay — pushing at his sternum, brows taut and eyes glassy, whining with every breath. Instead he pushed deeper, metal fingers drawing up your body until they held your jaw, squeezing your cheeks, making you look into his eyes.

"What's the matter?" His breath sticks to your face, bumping his nose to yours. "Pushin' me away? C'mon, speak to me."

You can't. That's the problem. It feels like with each pull and push, each pulse around his cock, and every kiss his tip grants your cervix, he drives all linguistic knowledge out of your brain, spilling it from your lips in garbled nonsense and breathy moans.

A whiney hum spills out as you tighten your lips into a line, keeping your jaw firm. You lean back into the pillow, shutting your eyes trying to find any semblance of words, but his hips keep moving. Slower now, yet still as effective, still holding you rigid and perfectly, and tauntingly precise. Rutting the length of himself inside of you while the fuzz of hair that littered the base kept grazing your clit. It isn't until one hand claws at the meat of his shoulder, and the other, the hand that pushed at the chain, leaving tiny dents in it's wake, fisted at the metal.

It clinks as the tags stay dangling from your palm, bumping to and fro.

"Oh, sweetheart," Bucky soothes, the warm metal of his thumb strokes against your bottom lip, slicked with spit and salty with sweat. "We're they botherin' you?"

You nod quickly, leaving a sharp smile on his face, dipping down to leave gentle kisses against your jaw.

"My smart girl," you keen into the praise, leaning deeper into his hand, letting his voice rasp and vibrate into your skin, leaving more room for him to lick and kiss. "Thought you wanted me to stop."

Ardently, you shake your head, ruffling your hair into the pillow behind you.

"No, no stopping. 'M not gonna stop." And he doesn't. His flesh hand replaces your own around the tags and he slots them between his teeth.

Salt and iron cover his tongue, sweat that had dripped from his down body, and your own that had mixed in as it had laid against your own skin, or tapped annoyingly your neck. It makes a dull sound as they sat firmly between his teeth, braced to the side, just where his molars start and his canines dig into the printed letters of his name.

It shouldn't be hot.

The sight of his mouth full, his teeth bared, carrying something precious with an iron grip of his jaw, made your walls pulse. You almost wanted to swap it out, to reach up and take the tags in your own mouth, enveloped in the debauched taste of century old metal, skin and spit.

But its hedonic. You love how he looks. Skin slick, chest heaving, drool already pooling at the edges of the tags, at the corner of his mouth right where his lips met. Animalistic in a way.

"There we go, there we go," his speech muffled, yet still affirmative and firm as he brings back the pace. Making your head drop back and mouth hang open on a gasp, arching your back. The warmth of his palm glides up your torso, leaving goosebumps as he drags up and down, before pulling your leg up by the thigh to latch onto his waist and holding you firmly at the hip. All while holding himself up on his forearm, vibranium fingers holding the top of your head reassuringly, grazing his thumb on your hairline.

He hums, unable to speak with his mouth full, unable to gather the spit about to fall. Your hands claw at the contorting muscles of his shoulder blades, moving to capture his hair between your fingers.

The tug you force has him stuttering, hips pressing to your own, the hair surrounding his base tickles again, right against your nub.

"Oh—fuck," you breathe out, jaw slack and tight all at once, the light feeling of release easing up your back as your thighs begin to tingle and tremble around his torso. "Bucky… Bucky, please."

The rivulets of spit drop, coating your neck and chin, and he follows them down until his hot, wet breath finds your temple. His chest caves with each inhale, keeping his hips up, holding down the pace that has you throbbing up his shaft, your nails digging into his shoulder and thighs shaking. He can feel the ring around the root of him, creamy and white, mixed in with the dark patch of hair.

The tags tinkle dully, let go from the cell of his teeth to lay wet next to your neck. You pay no mind to the slurping sound of him gathering spit from his lips; only staying in the blissed out haze of Bucky's body atop of yours and his pretty cock slapping in and out of you.

"C'mon, c'mon…" he repeats like a mantra, whispering under his breath, heated on the shell of your ear. "You got it, fuck, you feel so good. Wanna cum—cum inside of you, wanna push it in deep, n'keep fuckin' it in… Please, please, please…"

As your nails print crescents into his skin, your mouth holds a jumble of 'yes's to his shoulder. Balm and torrid to the meat of his shoulder, your body locks and a sweet ache begins to release around the stretch of him. Your lips press to his collarbone, muffling the shudders and whines and gasps that release as he fucks you through it, wet slaps and mumbled grunts chorusing together while you jolt and pulse.

It isn't long until he follows through, finishing deep inside, pressing and holding himself as his cock twitches with each spurt of cum. As if awoken from his daze, he keeps his hips moving.

Splatterings of white coat both of your pelvises and thighs, shuddering with overstimulation, muscles limp from overexertion, eyes half lidded and lips parted and red.

Bucky slowed himself as your jerking lessened and your teeth bared to hiss at the mild pain, and his dick softened. He watched, holding himself up with his knuckles to the pillow, guiding the softer limb to stay inside of your full warmth, uncaring about the mess that now coats his fingers — absentmindedly licking them off like candy residue.

Sighs and soft groans alike leave you both as he slips out. Your nails caress his torso, gliding gently up the red marks you printed on his back, down to the sensitive muscles of his ass, making him twitch and press his hips to yours again with a stifled laugh to your jaw.

"Careful, might get hard again before I can clean you up." He kisses and breathes you in, holding you into his body as your fingers hold their gentle rhythm.

You huff a lazy version of a laugh, nosing against the sweet smell of sweat where his neck meets his shoulder.

"Oh no, how awful," You croak sarcastically. The weakness in your voice makes you both laugh fully, rumbling chests pressed against one another, cheeks tight with smiles, and eyes watching with warm fragments. After a short moment of silence, of lungs catching up, you follow down the column of his neck to where his dog tags laid lopsided on your chest, and hummed. "I liked that thing you did."

"'That thing'?" He pressed, smirking, lowering his voice. "I've got many things goin' for me, sweetheart, be specific."

Another laugh breaks, crinkling your eyes at the corners, playfully pushing at his chest.

"That dog tag thing, you know, putting them in your mouth."

"You liked that?"

You nodded, fervently. "Uh-huh. Very much."

His lips move into a soft smile, catching the slick metal cards between his fingers to bring them up.

"That so?" He teases quietly, dragging them across your bottom lip, leaving the dewy residue to sit, sliding them just between the seam of your lips only to jut it out with a pop. "Maybe next time you can hold them for me?"

With your tongue poking out, you get a taste of the flavour that pooled alongside Bucky's own tongue. Musky and sour, tangy with body heat. And with a soft press on your thigh, you know that you're under a limit.

"Next time meaning five minutes?" You prod, tilting your head innocently. "Haven't even gotten cleaned up and it seems like little Sergeant Barnes is reporting for duty."

With a tut, he holds your chin, shaking his head. "Nuh-uh, fuck that and your smart mouth. Open wide, hold tight."

You obey and bite down as he slots the tags between your teeth, tugging at the chain twice to test out your grip. You scrunch your nose and furrow your brows, playfully pulling back at the chain. The grotesque brackishness of the tester you got grips you fully and drips down your throat.

"'Little Sergeant Barnes'," he repeats, sitting up as far as he could to grab ahold on himself. Sticky, wet and just as hard as before. He strokes himself, groaning as he fists tighter at his ruddy tip, coaxing a pearl of precum. Defiantly, he taps his heaviness on your clit. "Keep that up and making sure every inch of you aches with me the next day, understood?"

A giggle bubbles up before you could force it down. He slaps his cock against your clit again, holding and coating it down and between your lips, still creamy and dripping his own release, bullying your button with his tip. Your whine is muffled between your teeth as you bear them down.

"Understood?" He pushes, voice firmer, harsher, and you nod, heart racing, ribs already quivering. The sounds of your joint bodies squelch louder and louder, as your head lays dizzier and dizzier, but his voice whispers so soft and the way he terrorises and hounds your insides brings stars to the corners of your eyes.

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